Skip to main content

Full text of "Journal Of The Department Of Letters, Vol.33"

See other formats


J UL a . k ■ wn m y 





JOURNAL 

OF THE 

DEPARTMENT OF LETTERS 




pnioersitp of @^alcutta 


Journal 

of the 

Department of Letters 


Voi. xxxni 



UNIVERSITY OF CALCUTTA 
1943 



PRINTED IN INDIA 

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY BHUPENDRALAL BANERJEB AT THE 
OALOUTTA UNIVERSITY PRESS, 48, HAZRA ROAD, BALLYOUNGE, CALCUTTA. 


1246B.J, —February, 1943 — e 



CONTENTS 


1. English Prosody, by Rev. C. S. Milford, M.A. 

(Oxon.), St. Paul’s College, Calcutta. 

2. vrs— 

3. Associate Life in the Gama, by Dr. Atindranath 

Bose, M.A., Ph.D., Indian Statistical Institute, 
Presidency College, Calcutta. 

4. Philosophy of Bosanquet, by Mr. Benoy Gopal Ray, 

M.A., Visva-Bharati, Santiniketan. 

5. Place-Names of Bengal, by Mr. Krishnapada 

Goswami, M.A. 

6. William Somerset Maugham, (Novelist and Story- 

Teller), by Mr. Nitish Kumar Basu, M.A. 


Pages 

i-a7 

1-80 

1-13 

1-97 

1-70 


1-116 




ENGLISH PROSODY 


BY 

The Rev. C. S. Milfoed, M.A. (Oxon.) 

All students of Calcutta University are examined in English 
Prosody. But it must be confessed that there is a good deal 
of confusion and mystification about this subject, not only 
among the students but, not uncommonly, among the teachers 
and even the examiners also. 

Partly Irhis is due to the inevitable difficulty of dealing 
with the finer points of the sounds of any foreign language. 
But English Prosody has been a puzzle by no means only to 
foreign students ; and members of this University who have 
found it bewildering might be reassured to know something 
of the amazing amount of confusion and difference on this 
subject among English scholars themselves even down to the 
present day. 

To some extent this is almost inevitable. Rhythm is 
something which we can all perceive and enjoy — some, it is 
true, to a greater extent than others. But it is extremely 
difficult to reduce to rule or to expound in words. It is some- 
thing which we learn in our cradles ; ‘ nursery rhymes,’ the 
child’s first literature, can get along very well without much 
•sense, but never without a strongly marked rhythm. Yet 
just because its enjoyment is instinctive from such an early 
age, it is all the more difficult to analyse it, just as it is extremely 
difficult to analyse the movements of our own speech organs. 



2 


REV. C. S. MILPORD 


I still believe, however, that much of the confusion in 
English Prosody has been unnecessary, and that it is yorth 
while trying to dear some of it away, though I am very doubt- 
ful how far it can ever be suitable as a formal branch of study 
for the Intermediate students of this University. 

To begin with, many difficulties have arisen because all 
English scholars have been brought up on Greek and Latin 
poetry, and thus inherited a ready-made system of prosody, 
which they only gradually discovered to be unsuitable to their 
own language and which has saddled English Prosody with 
some misleading and unnecessary jargon up to the present 
day. Greek and Latin poetry was based on ‘ quantity ’ of 
syllables, which depended on the length of time taken in their 
pronunciation. There has been more or less agreement that 
this classical system is not fully applicable to English verse. 
Gascoigne, who lived in the sixteenth century and was the 
earliest English writer on Prosody, says that English verse is 
based on ‘ emphasis ’ rather than on length. Later writers 
have commonly used ‘ accent ’ or ‘ stress ’ instead of emphasis, 
but have generally agreed that this element, which is to some 
extent independent of length, is the chief basis of English 
verse. Coleridge gave great encouragement to this view Ly 
his preface to Christabel, in which he wrote, “ The metre of 
Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may 
seem so from its being founded on a new principle, namely 
that of counting, in each line, the accents, not the syllables.” 
This has led some scholars to analyse English rhythm in terms 
of accents or stresses alone, ignoring the real importance of 
length, especially in the unstressed syllables. Others, like 
Saintsbury, have stiU regarded ‘ quantity ’ as the basis of 
English verse, though they do not maintain that this is to be 
strictly identified with length of time. An enormous amount 
of unnecessary ink has been spilt in controversy between the 
‘ Foot and Quantity ’ school of Saintsbury, and those whom 
he calls, with great contempt the ‘ accentnalists ’ or ‘ stress- 



teKGLISH PEOSODY 


9 

men ’ — unnecessary because, as we shall see, both length and 
stress are equally essential to verse rhythm, if they are projierly 
regarded. 

^ Others, like Prof. Sonnenschein,! have tried to analyse 
by syllables only, ignoring to a great extent both stress and 
length. Further confusion has arisen because many critics 
have dimly perceived that ‘ pitch,’ i.e., the change of the musical 
tone of the voice, also has something to do with rhy thm , but 
none has been able to see just what the connection is ; e.g.. 
Sir G. Young writes,^ “ Of gamut or pitch in EngUsh verse there 
is nothing remaining. !^t is of course true that a pleasing 
combination of stressed and unstressed syllables which we 
call a ‘ rhythm,’ or vowels and consonants in an order we find 
euphonious, in prose or verse may suggest a cadence or tune, 
and be pronounced accordingly. But cadence in verse is a 
metaphor and not a term of art.” Others, such as Prof. W. 
Thomson, seem to think that raised pitch is simply a 
re-inforcemelit of stress and leave it at that. 

Finally, many prosodists have agreed in refraining from 
any attempt to analyse or define what stress in English verso 
really is, and in particular its real relation to length has been 
largely ignored, though this is obviously a vital matter. 

As an instance of the utter confusion into which some 
of the most learned and prolific writers have fallen, we may 
take this passage from Saintsbury’s Manual of English Prosody, 
p. 21. Arguing that English verse is best analysed into feet 
consisting of ‘ long ’ and ‘ short ’ syllables, he admits that 
many syllables are ‘ common,’ i.e., they may be either short 
or long. He proceeds, “ The methods and movements by 
which this commonness is turned into length or shortness for 
the purposes of the poet are obvious enough, and in practice 
undeniable .... Every well-educated and well-bred Enghshman, 


* E. A. Sonnensohein, What i» Rhythm > 

> Sir G. Young, An Bnglifh Prosody on Inductive Lines. Cambridge, 1928. 



REV. C. S. MlLEOUi) 


4 ' 

who has been accustomed to read poetry and utter speech 
carefully, knows that when he emphasises a syllable like ‘ and,’ 

‘ it,’ etc., it becomes capable of performing its metrical duty 
in the long position ; that when he does not, it is not so capable® 
Everyone knows in practice, though it may be denied in theory, 
that similar lengthening (in metrical quantity, not in vowel 
sound) follows the doubling of a consonant, after a short vowel, 
or the placing of a group of consonants of different kinds after 
it — the vowel sound running, as it were, under the penthouse 
of the consonants till it emerges. Extreme loudness or sharp- 
ness would have the same effect in conversation, but, unless 
very obviously suggested by the sense, would escape notice 
in silent reading.” Among the more glaring blunders in this 
passage the following may be specially noted ; — 

(1) Saintsbury seems to realise that he is using long and 
short in a special sense, not with their literal meaning. He 
sometimes puts the words in inverted commas, and distinguishes 
between metrical quantity and length of vowel sound. But 
the use of these words is hopelessly misleading unless there is 
some ascertainable connection between their technical and 
ordinary senses. In point of fact, however, the kind of syllables 
he is considering may actually be much longer when they 
are unstressed than when they are stressed. In the line 

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us 

the word ‘ of ’ is emphasised, i.e., it is stressed, and Saintsbury 
would call it ‘ long.’ A moment’s reflection however will 
shew that in the line 

The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! 
the word ‘ of,’ though quite unstressed, is in actual time much 
longer than in the former line where it is stressed. Endless 
confusion has arisen from this misuse of terms. 

(2) In Byron’s line quoted above, the real length of the 
word ‘ of ’ is caused by the group of consonants, f, g, r, which 
follow the vowel. Saintsbury mentions this factor, but he 



ENGLISH TROSODY 


5 


quite fails to detect that the length which it gives is true length, 
and has in many cases nothing to do with stress-‘ length,’ 
or ‘‘ performing a metrical duty in the long position.” His 
own last sentence quoted above contains no less than three 
words which completely belie what he said in the sentence 
before : ‘ extreme,’ ‘ effect ’ and ‘ suggest.’ Here vowels which 
are both really short and also unstressed, are followed in one 
case by a combination of different consonants, in the other two 
by doubled consonants. In the first case there is lengthening 
only in the true, not in the Saintsburian sense (i.e., the first 
syllable is not stressed), and in the other two there is no lengthen- 
ing in any sense. Saintsbury affected to despise phonetics, 
and like many others who do that, he seems to be hypnotised 
by spelling, which, specially in a language like English, has 
no necessary relation to the actual sound. 

(3) Elsewhere Saintsbury has said that he does not 
know what ‘ length ’ is, but he can recognise it. Here he 
falls back on the “ well-educated and well-bred Englishman ” 
who knows instinctively where the stress should fall. This 
attitude has been another great cause of confusion ; scholars 
have not troubled to analyse what they and most of their 
pupils have known and done instinctively since childhood, 
and have, therefore, failed to detect what should have been 
obvious facts. 

This last point is one of the considerations which have 
emboldened me to venture on this field where so much has 
already been writfen. In a letter to me a few years ago Prof. 
A. Lloyd James wrote, “ As for rhythm, all the men who have 
written on it have suffered from the disadvantage of never 
having had to teach English phonetics to foreigners.” It is 
through doing just this in Calcutta University during the last 
nine years that I have been led to study the rhythms and 
specially the stresses of my own language without taking so 
much for granted as has usually been done. Some hints -given 
me by Prof. Lloyd James I have found specially fruitful and 



0 


REV. C. S. MILFORD 


suggestive for the analysis of English stress ; and 1 have not 
been able -to find any writing which throws an equal amount 
of light on it. 

I propose in this paper to attempt two tasks. First, t^e 
analysis of stress itself. (Admittedly this is a very difficult 
thing to do by means of the printed word. It is only fair to 
say that Prof. Lloyd James himself regards it as impossible ; 
he wrote, “ Verbal descriptions of rhythm are useless, in speech 
as in music ; it is a subjective experience, like colour, and 
cannot be described without reference to itself.” I believe, 
however, that this view is unnecessarily pessimistic.) Secondly, 
an easier task, to draw attention to a tradition in English Prosody 
represented chiefly by Coventry Patmore and Dr. D, S. McColl, 
which has been too little known, and never fully adopted in 
any of the formal treatises, but which, 1 believe, sheds much 
light, specially on the place of stress in English verse and its 
relation to length or time, and which, if it were more widely 
known and taught, would greatly simplify the whole subject. 

Analysis on Stress in English 

Everyone is agreed that in all speech, prose no loss than 
verse, some syllables are more prominent than others, and 
that this prominence and its recurrence play a vital part in 
rhythm. It has been variously named emphasis, stress or 
accent ; while some writers have used both stress and accent 
to indicate different kinds of prominence. I shall use the 
word stress only, for three reasons. Because it is the one 
most commonly used by modern writers on phonetics ; because 
accent is highly ambiguous and has been used in so many 
different senses ; and because I believe that the different kinds 
of stress, such as word-stress (the prominence of a syllable 
in the word), sentence-stress (the prominence of a word in 
the sentence), metrical stress, rhetorical stress, and so on, 
are all different aspects of one fundamental entity. 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


7 


What is this stress ? What is it that makes one syllable 
more' prominent than another? A great many writers have 
assumed that it is force ; the tone is louder, the breath is 
expelled from the lungs with greater vigour, or what not. This 
view will be found in many standard books on phonetics. It 
is adopted by so careful and weighty a writer as Prof. Thomson,^ 
who says, “ When we say that we accent or stress a syllable 
we mean that we apply greater force to it, we expend greater 
energy on its production, we utter it with a louder voice, as 
compared with other syllables.” Others like Saintsbury, as 
we have seen, equate it with ‘ length,’ but apparently do not 
trouble to enquire what, if any, is its relation to actual length. 
Others are more cautious, and refuse to define it at all. Thus 
Patmore, in an important passage to which we shall return 
later, wrote, “ 8ome writers have identified our metrical accent 
with long quantity ; others have placed it in relative loudness ; 
others have fgincied it to consist, like the Greek, in pure tone ; 
others have regarded it as a compound of loudness and elevation 
of tone ; and others, again, have regarded it as a general 
prominence acquired by one syllable over another, by any 
or all of these elements in combination. Now, it seems to 
me that the only tenable view of that accent upon which it is 
allowed, with more or less distinctness, by all, that English 
metre depends, in contradistinction to the syllabic metre of 
the ancients, is the view which attributes to it the function 
of marking, by whatever means, certain isochronous intervals.” 
Similarly T. S. Omond writes, “ Accent is the emphasis, however 
produced, which selects one or more syllables out of a group 
of syllables, one or more words out of a group of words.” This 
is an admirable statement as far as it goes, and perhaps is 
sufficient for practical purposes for those who know instinctively 
how to stress their mother-tongue. But is it really necessary 
to leave the matter as indefinite as this ? 


1 w, Thomson, The Rhythm of Spe*>rh 1023. 



REV. C. S. MILFORD 


8 ’ 


Attempts have been made to analyse stress by means of 
laboratory experiments. Accounts of some of these will be 
found in papers by Dr, E. W. Scripture in the British Journal 
of Psychology for 1921, p. 225, and Proceedings of the British 
Academy, 1923. He used an apparatus which accurately 
recorded in the length of time occupied by each syllable, the 
loudness or 9 ,mplitude of the sound, and the changes in musical 
tonp or pitch. He concludes that four elements give stress 
to portions of speech ; namely, increased length, increased 
loudness, raised pitch, and increased precision of enunciation. 

There is some truth in this. But Dr. Scripture does not, 
in these papers at any rate, analyse his data far enough to 
bring out their full meaning. First, with regard to length. 
It is true that it often does play a part in stress, but the relation 
is a subtle one as we shall sec, and it is quite misleading simply 
to say that length contributes to stress. In the word ‘ record,’ 
whichever syllable is stressed, the second .syllable remains 
immen.sely longer than the first, which is equally short in 
either case. Moreover, as will appear later, the lengthening 
which indicates stress may often be the lengthening not of 
the stressed syllable at all, but of another. 

Coming next to loudness. Dr. Scripture’s own recordings 
shew that this is a very doubtful criterion of stress. He gives 
diagrams of the motion of the recording arm of his apparatus 
for the words ‘ blitter,’ ‘ bushel,’ ‘ butcher.’ In all of these 
the first syllable is stressed, but in ‘ butter ’ each syllable 
was shewn to be equally loud ; in ‘ bushel ’ the second was 
slightly louder, and in ‘ butcher ’ it was much louder. Possibly 
the affricative sound of tch is responsible for this last fact. 
The same result may be observed by holding a small piece 
of tissue paper before the mouth as one speaks. It will be 
easily noticed that stressed .syllables do not in general produce 
any stronger emission of breath which can be observed from 
the movement of the paper ; but the paper will fly up at plosive 
and affricative consonants, whether the syllables are stressed 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


9 


or not. It would seem in fact that the association of force 
with stress is very largely only subjective, as far as ordinary 
speech and reading is concerned. The speaker seems to him- 
self to pronounce these syllables with greater energy, but 
there is no corresponding increase in loudness or force which 
can be observed or recorded. 

Dr. Scripture’s third element, raised pitch, is certainly 
very often associated with stress in English, but here again 
I believe that the connection is a more subtle one than his 
plain statement suggests. 

His fourth point is “ increased precision of enunciation.” 
He does not explain very clearly what he means by this, but 
if he includes in it the quality of the short vowel sounds, 
I believe he has hit upon one of the most important aspects 
of the question, and one which has been most widely ignored. 
But he does not seem to be very clear about it. He gives 
an analysis of part of the nursery rhyme, “ Who killed Cock 
Robin ? ” Now, all would agree that the first syllable of 
Robin ’ is stressed. But Scripture is puzzled to explain this. 
He writes, “ It is difficult to say why the first syllable of ‘ Robin ’ 
produced a strong impression. Although the amplitude is 
large, the pitch is low. Possibly the r should be taken as part 
of the vowel stretch. This would give a long length.” What- 
ever the explanation, it is certainly not this ; for if we substitute 
say b for r, and say ‘ Cock Bobbin,’ the same syllable is just 
as obviously stressed as before, though the b eannot possibly 
be regarded as adding length to the vowel sound. 

The discussion of this word leads conveniently to the 
statement of what I believe to be the most important single 
element in English stress at present. 

Elements of Stress in English 
(1) Vowel Quality. 

In modern Southern English, of the short vowel sounds, 
the neutral vowel a is always unstressed ; i and u may be 

8— J246 B.J, 



REV. C. S. MILFORD 


l<k 

either stressed or unstressed ; the others, namely e, ae, a, o 
are always stressed.^ At first sight it does not seem as if 
this could be a statement of any great importance with regard 
to stress in general ; but actually it is far-reaching. The 
neutral vowel has now become so very frequent that a very 
large number of syllables are at once indicated as being un- 
stressed, and this by contrast suggests stress on neighbouring 
syllables. Any syllable which if stressed would have the 
sounds se, a or a, always has a if unstressed.^ Where the 
stressed sound would be e, the unstressed is either a or i, the 
latter being specially common in prefixes and suffixes, as in 
‘ extend,’ ‘ remain,’ ‘ houses,’ * parted.’ The neutral vowel 
has also taken the place of long vowels and diphthongs in 
very many unstressed syllables, as in ‘ tremendo?!.'?,’ ‘ contrary,’ 
‘ photography,’ ‘ parliament.’ 

This phenomenon is of course familiar enough and is 
pointed out in every text-book on phonetics specially in 
connection with the ‘ strong ’ and ‘ weak ’ forms of mono- 
syllables ; but it seems to have been strangely ignored in the 
treatment of stress. It may perhaps be argued that the 
degeneratioii of the vowel sounds is only a residt of the heavy 
stress on other syllables ; but it surely remains just as true 


^ There are a number of exceptions to this ; but on the whole they are surprisingly 
few and can mostly be easily explained : — 

(1) e and a often retain their full pronunciation oven when unstressed, if they 
are followed by a combination of consonants ; e.g. campaign, ab'aent, 'contact, 'extract, 
conquest, insect, portent, conduct. 

(2) When the short vowel has not degenerated, it should probably often be regarded 
as carrying a secondary stress. This is specially so in three cases : 

(а) Compound words, e.g. hatstand, bedspread, come-back, tree -stump, dumbell* 

(б) Proper names, specially foreign names in which the sounds are naturally em- 

phasised in a special way ; e.g. Penang, Gantok, Conrad. 

(c) Long words, which regularly have a secondary stress, to avoid the difficulty 
of pronouncing many unstressed syllables together ; e.g. contravention, 
aberration, parenthetical. 

A few words remain, such as, inset, progress, process, which cannot be brought under 
anjr of the above heads^ but I believe they are very few, 



ENGLISH PROSODY li 

that it is now an essential dement in the stressing of those 
syllables. For after all stress is simply a question of the 
relative prominence of syllables, and therefore the degeneration 
of one automatically gives prominence to its neighbom*s. 

Certainly it is true that today the mere presence of one 
of the vowels e, se, a, o is enough in itself to give the impression 
of stress without the help of any of the other means of giving 
prominence. This is the secret of the stress observed on the 
first syllable of ‘ Robin ’ in the line, “ Who killed Cock Robin ? ” 
If the line be read on a monotone and with no variations of 
loudness, the same syllable will still be heard as stressed. 
Similarly in pairs of words sueh as p resent and pre sent, 
c'oncert and con cert, substance and subtract, barrack and 
canal, c'onvict and con'vict, the vowel sounds are enough in 
themselves to indicate clearly which syllable is stressed ; 
though in most contexts it would also be shewn in some other 
way also, specially by intonation. 

It will be noticed that in a certain number of words this 
element of vowel quality gives no indication of the stress. 
Such are words which have only the vowel sound i, vivid, 
insist, instinct, distinctive, indivisibility. Also the words 
noted in the footnote above where e, se or a still stand in 
unstressed syllables — e.gr., impact, conquest ; and a few words 
like window, harpoon, containing an unstressed syllable with 
a long vowel or diphthong which has not yet degenerated. 
In words of this kind (which are on the whole surprisingly 
few) we are chiefiy dependent on intonation for fixing the 
stress. 

(2) Intonation or Pitch. 

In the production of any ‘ voiced ’ sounds, which includes 
all vowels unless they are whispered, the vocal chords of the 
larynx vibrate. These vibrations must have a definite frequency 
and can therefore be assigned to a definite tone in the musical 
scale. In ordinary speech, as opposed to singing, the changes 
of tone or pitch are so many and swift, and the tone itself 



12 


KEV. 0. S. MILEORD 


is often so low and indistinct, that the intonation is very 
difficult to record or indicate in notation. Many writers have 
felt that intonation {i.e., the changes in tone or pitch) have 
something to do with rhythm ; but they have often dismissed 
it as being important only for rhetorical expression and not 
for the regular rhythm of prosody ; or have been content 
to say that high tone is part of stress and to leave it at that. 

Actually in English high tone is usually associated with 
stress. But this is not universally true in English and even 
less so in many other languages. In Welsh for instance and 
also in Bengali, stress is often indicated by a lowering of the 
tone. In English the general rules seem to be as follows : 

(а) Stress on any syllable of a word other than the last 
is shewn by a plain change of tone whether up or down, i.e., 
the stressed syllable is spoken on a highei’ or lower tone than 
the rest of the word. Usually it is higher, but in certain cases, 
e.g., in questions ex])ecting the ansuc'i' ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no,’ or in 
counting objects (until the last one is reached), the intonation 
is inverted, and the stress is indicated by a drop. In “ Do 
you do it by instinct ? ” the stress on the first syllable of 
‘ instinct ’ would be indicated by speaking it on a lower tone 
than the adjacent syllables. Similarly in counting “ fifty, 
sixty, seventy.” 

(б) If the stress is on the last syllable, this starts on a 
higher tone than the previous syllables and drops during the 
pronunciation of the vowel. Here also the intonation is 
inverted in the special cases mentioned above. 

One interesting point about intonation is specially signi- 
ficant for verse rhythm. It is this. The above rules of intonation 
are always true of words spoken in isolation, and generally 
true in connected speech. But in certain contexts the intona- 
tion may be “ flattened out,” particularly when a word of 
which one syllable would normally be stressed, stands in a 
subordinate position in a sentence. In the sentence “ Not 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


U 

this village, but that village,” village, sjjecially the second 
time, would be spoken with a perfectly flat or even intonation. 
Now, when this happens to a word of this particular kind, 
in which, as we have seen, the vowel sounds (i in each syllable) 
give no indication of the stress, it would seem that there is 
no objective expression left at all of the stress' on the first 
syllable. It cannot certainly be indicated by length, for in 
actual time the second syllable of ‘ village ’ is certainly longer 
than the first. Yet when this set of circumstances occurs 
in poetry, as it not uncommonly does (especially since rapid 
changes of intonation tend to occur less in poetry than in 
prose), all })rosodists agree without hesitation in marking a 
stress on the syllable that would normally carry it, if the word 
stood in isolation. 

E.(j., Under a spn'ading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands. 

Or, A spirit haunts the year’s last hours. 

All would agree in stressing the first syllables of ‘ village,’ 
‘ smithy ’ and ‘ spirit.’ Yet in each case each syllable has 
the same short i sound ; and though ‘ smithy ’ certainly has 
falling intonation, most readers would, 1 believe, speak the other 
two words with, to all intents and purposes, level intonation. 
It seems certain that in these cases both the speaker and the 
hearer mentally carry over the association of the stress which 
is normally given to these syllables by intonation ; and there- 
fore they feel and seem to hear the stress, though in fact it 
has not objective indication at all. This small point has 
been somewhat laboured because it is significant as illustrating 
the mental or subjective element in stress, which, as will be seen, 
is specially important for the understanding of verse rhythm. 

(3) Length. 

As has been remarked above, length has sometimes been 
identified with stress ; or has been said to be one of the elements 



14 - 


REV. C. S. MILFORD 


which contributes to the impression of stress. The latter 
statement has some truth in it, but the relationship between 
length and stress is not so simple as this, and an unstressed 
syllable will often be much longer than an adjacent stressed one. 

In order to explain the relation, it is necessary to anticipate 
somewhat by stating the fundamental basis of verse rhythm. 
It is this. The lines are divided into approximately equal 
isochronous sections by the recurring stress ; i.e., each group 
of syllables starting with a stress is spoken in approximately 
the same length of time. As one would expect, the regularity 
of beat is most noticeable in the simplest poetry, and specially 
in traditional poetry such as nursery rhymes. The principle 
is illustrated very clearly by such a line as this — 

This is the house that Jack built. 

Here there are four ‘ stress groups ’ or ‘ feet ' each beginning 
with a stress, and consisting of 3, 2, 1 and 1 syllables ; and 
each occupies exactly the same time in pronunciation. 

We can now state some of the ‘ rules ’ governing the 
relation between stress and length. (It need hardly be 
mentioned that ‘ rule ’ is used throughout in a purely inductive 
sense ; the rules are merely generahsations based on observation 
of what has been in fact the general practice of writers, readers 
and singers of English verse.) 

‘ Long Vowels ’ tend to be lengthened if they occur in 
stressed syllables, (a) especially if there is a shortage of sounds 
to fill up the interval between one stress and the next, as in 
‘ monosyllabic feet.’ E.g., in 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold grey stones, 0 sea ! 

the diphthongs in the first line are lengthened to help each 
word to fill a time equal to that taken by the pairs of words 
‘ cold grey ’ and ‘ stones 0 ’ in the second line. 


^ i,e,i i : a : a : a : u : and diphthongs. 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


16 


(b) U the same vowel sound is stressed, but there are other 
sounds in the same foot, it will generally be somewhat shorter. 

(c) It will tend to be shorter still if it is unstressed, thougl| 
it is still classified as a ‘ long ’ vowel. This is true of the 
vowel in ‘ grey ’ in the second line above, which is unstressed. 

‘ /Short Vowels ’ cannot themselves be lengthened at all ; 
but in case (a) above, the syllable can still be lengthened to 
fill up the foot, only in this ease the length will attach to the 
following consonant or consonants, possibly helped also by 
a ‘ rest ’ ^ or interval of silence. It is specially to be noted 
that even a ‘ stop ’ or ‘ plosive ’ consonant can be thus 
lengthened, though they are usually thought of as having 
practically no length. In “ This is the house that Jack built,” 
there is a very marked lengthening of the consonant k at the 
end of Jack, consisting of an interval between the closing 
of the consonant and the opening or ‘ plosion ’ which occurs 
only just before the first consonant of the next word. In 
‘ built ’ the 'same lengthening shared between the two conso- 
nants 1 and t. 

Notice also that this lengthening of consonants after a 
short vowel takes place only in the last syllable of a foot (or 
of course the only syllable if the foot is monosyllabic) or when 
the stressed vowel is followed by a heavy combination of 
consonants, as in such words as ‘ flaxen,’ ‘ pensive.’ In other 
cases, the length is carried over, so to speak, to a later syllable. 
Here again, if the vow'el of the next syllable is short, the length 
goes to the consonant or consonants following that, as in 
Longfellow’s ‘ spreading ’ and ‘ village ’ quoted before. If, 
however, the next vowel is long, this vowel itself is lengthened, 
as in such a word as ‘ gallows,’ where we have the apparent 


^ The distinction between re.sf and pause as used in music should be carefully noticed . 
A rest is a period of silence needed to fill up the interval between beats or stresses which 
follow one another at regular intervals. A pause is extra-metrical ; it is a stoppa^^ of 
the regular recurrence of stresses, and the extra time so inserted may be filled either with 
e^stained sound or i^th silence, 



REV. C. S. MILFORD 


anomaly of a short vowel in the stressed syllable followed 
by a long vowel in the unstressed. 

The above remarks will have made it clear that even 
when there is lengthening, it is very often not on the stresse4 
syllable ; and in many cases of course there is no reason for 
any lengthening at all, when the sound sufficiently fill up the 
interval between the stresses, e.g., in the first foot of “ This 
is the house that Jack biiilt.” 

In the case of the long vowels, other factors enter into their 
length too. Quite apart from verse rhythm, these ‘ long 
vowels ’ have three diflerent lengths each. {«) They are shortest 
if followed immediately by another vowel or with only a semi- 
vowel between. (6) They are slightly longer if followed by 
an unvoiced consonant, (c) They are longer still if followed 
by a voiced consonant. Thus in Gray’s litie 

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea 
in the word ‘ lowing ’ (which according to the method of 
scansion adopted in this article should be rcganh'd as forming 
a foot by itself) the first syllable, which is sh'cssed, contains 
a diphthong. But because it is followed by only a semi-vowel 
it is so short that the second unstres.sed syllable with its short 
vowel is actually longer than the first, the length going chiefly 
to the consonant ng at the end. In the nursery rhyme so 
often quoted already, if we substitute ‘ Jones ’ for ‘ Jack,’ 
“ This is the house that Jones built,” then the diphthong of 
Jones, followed by the voiced n, will be lengthened so as to 
occupy most of the foot. If, however, we substitute ‘ Pope,’ 
though the vowel is the same, it is followed by the unvoiced 
p and will therefore be much shorter, and will leave quite a lot 
of length for the final p, which will therefore be actually longer 
than the much heavier nz sound at the end of ‘ Jones ’ ; though 
not quite so long as the k of ‘ Jack,’ where the vowel could 
not be lengthened at all. Much light can be thrown on this 
whole question of length and stress by the simple experiment 
of substituting different words for ‘ Jack,’ such as ‘ Robin,’ 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


17 


‘ Robinson ’ and so on, (This point was suggested by Prof. 
Lloyd James.) 

Two other things may be noted in this connection, though 
b^th anticipate to some extent the next section. 

{a) There are combinations of soimds which cannot possibly 
be pronounced quickly, even though they may be in an un- 
stressed syllable and there may be enough other soiinds to 
fill up the normal length of the foot. A striking instance is 
in Gray’s Elegy, the line quoted above. 

The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea. 

Here all prosodists would agree that ‘ winds ’ is metrically 
unstressed. But not only is its vowel sound very long, being 
a diphthong followed by a voiced consonant, but also this is 
followed again by a very heavy group of consonants, ndzsl. 
Moreover the stressed syllables before and after it are also 
long. In such a case as this it is impossible that the stresses 
should follow.each other in strictly regular time. The intervals 
between ‘ herd ’ and ‘ slow ' and between ‘ o’er ’ and ‘ lea ’ can- 
not possibly be equal. This means that there is what musicians 
call ritenuto, namely the slowing up of the stresses or beats them- 
selves, the fundamental rhythm of the line. This has much 
the same effect as a pause properly so called. Needless to say 
the great poets were well aware of this, and have used this 
device to convey emotional effects, as in this particular line, 
(b) Length often has a decisive effect in fixing the position 
of the stress when it is doubtful, in particular when there is 
a succession of monosyllables) all of which 'would be stressed 
in prose, but which cannot all carry a verse stress. We adjust 
the length of the syllables in order, so to say, to bring the 
syllable we wish to stress under the recurring hammer-blow 
of the rhythmic stress in our mind. In Shelley’s Hymn of Pan 
we find in the first stanza these lines : 

From the river-girt islands, 

Where loud waves are dumb. 

3—1245 B.J. . 



18 


REV. C. S. MILFORD 


As far as these two lines themselves are concerned, they could 
be read as dimeter, with two stresses only (on the first syllables 
of ‘ river ’ and ‘ island,’ and on ‘ loud ’ and ‘ dumb ’) in the 
same way as Arnold’s lines in The Forsaken Merman, . 

She will start from her slumber 

When gusts shake the door. etc. 

When however we look at the other two stanzas of the poem, 
we find that the lines corresponding to “ Where loud waves 
are dumb ” are 

The light of the dying day, 
and And Love, and Death, and Birth ; 

each of which must obviously have three stresses. The 
printing of the stanzas shews that they are clearly identical 
in form, so that “ Where loud waves are dumb ” must also be 
trimeter. Here, to indicate the three stresses we lengthen 
‘ loud,’ specially its vowel sound, so that it is capable of filling 
a whole foot, which automatically brings the next stress on 
to ‘ waves.’ ‘ Waves ’ is also lengthened, but not so much, 
because the next syllable ‘ are ’ fills up part of the foot. If 
the line is scanned with two feet only, both ‘ loud ’ and ‘ waves ’ 
are much shorter — the three syllables of the foot ‘ loud waves 
are ’ being all of approximately the same length. 

In cases such as this, if the syllable to be stressed has a 
short vowel, the extra length will usually be on adjacent 
syllables and not on the stressed syllable itself. A good instance 
is Gay’s line 

How liappy could T be with 'either, 

which can be scanned either with three stresses as marked above, 
or with four, stressing ‘ could ’ and ‘ be ’ instead of ‘ I.’ In 
the former case no syllable is lengthened, the diphthongs of 
‘ I ’ and ‘ either ’ being comparatively short, though both 
are stressed. In the latter case, the second syllable of ‘ happy ’ 
h drawn out and followed by a short ‘ rest,’ so that the word 
can fill a whole foot j the next stress, therefore, falls on ‘ could,’ 



JiNGLISH PROSODY 


19 


The vowel of this word cannot be lengthened ; so the added 
length needed to shew that ‘ could I ’ fills a whole foot is 
transferred to ‘I.’ This in turn brings ‘ be ’ under the next 
stress. This line is specially instructive, for the syllable ‘ I ’ 
is actually longer in the second scansion, where it is unstressed, 
than in the first, where it is stressed : whereas in the case of 
‘ be ’ the added length and added stress both coincide in the 
tetrameter scansion. 

The above brief analysis will serve to shew that the relation 
between stress and length is a subtle but at the same time 
an important one. 

General Principles of English Prosody 

We may liow proceed to the statement of some general 
principles which may enlighten the study of EngUsh Prosody. 
In this part I do not claim much originality ; but though the 
ideas which I^shall try to expound have been well stated before, 
they are not easily accessible in text-books. They were first 
clearly set out by Coventry Patmore, in an essay on English 
Metrical Law which appeared originally in Vol. XXVIl of the 
North British Review, in 1857, and was reprinted as a preface to 
his volume of poems, Amelia, published in 1878. This book 
has long been out of print, and the importance of the essay 
was not recognised, and it was not reprinted in his collected 
papers ; it is now, therefore, difficult to come by. Patmore 
himself acknowledges his debt to the work of Joshua Steele 
published in 1775. The same views will be found worked out 
in greater detail and with a good deal of eriticism* of other 
theories, in several essays by Dr. D. S. McColl. {Rhythm in 
English Verse, Prose and Speech, in “ Essays and Studies by 
members of the EngMsh Association ” 1914. An article on 
Metre in his book of collected essays entitled Confessions of 
a Keeper. And, more easily obtainable, an article Sense and 
Nonsense in English Prosody in the London Mercury, 
Vol. 38, 1938.) 



•20 


REV. 0. S. MILEURE 


The views stated in the above papers seem to me open 
to only minor criticisms, chiefly in the light of the analysis 
of stress attempted above. E.g., Patmore on p. 20 of his 
essay says, “ With us, the places of the metrical accent 'or 
‘ ictus,’ 1 of the accent in the sense of change of tone, and 
of long quantity, coincide.” We have already seen that such 
a sweeping statement is somewhat wide of the mark. He is 
also too ready, as in the passage already quoted above (p. 7), 
to assume that stress or ictm is indefinable ; and he even says 
(p. 26), “ 1 think it demonstrable that, for the most part, it 
has not material and external existanee at all, but has its 
place in the mind, which craves measure in everything, and 
wherever the idea of measure is uneontfadicted, delights in 
marking it with an imaginary ' beat If rhyfhm were really 
as subjective as this, there would be even far less agreement 
about English scansion than there is at present ! Similarly, 
Dr. McColl, in the first of the papers mejitioned above, writes, 
” The colour or quality of vowels is not necessary in verse,” 
whereas I have tried to shew above that it is an essential 
element of stress whether in verse or in prose. 

Apart from this, 1 believe that their views are in the main 
sound, and they have been adopted to a greater or lesser extent 
by various other writers— a list is given by Dr, McColl in his 
London Mercury article. One of the best text-books is T. 8. 
Omond, A Study of Metre ; some criticisms of this are suggested 
below just because it seems on the whole to be on the right 
lines. No attempt will be made to criticise in detail the mass 
of other theories that have been put forward — a thankless 
and endless task. 

We may take as a starting point a passage from Patmore’s 
essay which follows immediately that already quoted on p. 7. 
“ Now it seems to me that the only tenable view of that accent 


^ Ictus is Latin and iiiyans a blow^. It is U'iud tu indicate the recurring stresH ot 
‘ beat ’ in masic, which can be indicated by ‘ beating time,’ by tapping, by marching 
or (iancing4 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


21 


upon which it is allowed, with more or less distinctness, by all, 
that English metre depends, in contradistinction to the syllabic 
metres of the ancients, is the view which attributes to it the 
fhnction of marking, by whatever means, certain isochronous 
intervals. Metre implies something measured ; an assertion 
which sounds like a triiism ; but to a person who has studied 
our metrical critics, it will probably seem a starting novelty. 
It is one, however, which can afford to stand without any 
further recommendation than its obvious merits, for the present. 
The thing measured is the time occupied in the delivery of a 
series of words. But time measured implies somethmg that 
measures, and is therefore itself unmeasured : an argument 
before which those who hold that English accent and long 
quantity are identical must bow. These are two indispensable 
conditions of metre — first, that th^ sequence of vocial utterance, 
represented by written verse, shall be divided into equal or 
proportionate spaces ; secondly, that the fact of that division, 
shall he made manifest by an ‘ ictus ’ or ‘ beat,’ actual or mental, 
which, like a post in a chain raihng, shall mark the end of one 
space, and the commencement of another.” 

It will be noticed that this statement gives their proper 
place to both length and stress, as being both equally indis- 
pensable to verse rhythm, and thus disposes at one blow of all 
the controversy which has taken place between the “ length ” 
school and the “ stress ” school. It has already been remarked 
above that Patmore is inchned to emphasise too much the 
mental nature of the stress or ictus. It is true that instances 
have been quoted above, like “ The village smithy stands,” 
where for special reasons two stresses in a trimeter line are 
entirely mental, though even here there is an association with 
an objective phenomenon (change of tone) which would appear 
in the pronunciation of the same words in ordinary prose or 
conversation. There are also very many cases, as we shall 
see, where one or more stresses are entirely lacking from a 
line ; this is specially common in Blank Verse, notably in 



REV. C. S MILFORD 


22 ' 

Milton’s. In such cases it is certainly true that a purely 
mental ictus has to be supplied by the reader or listener ; it 
is even essential to a good and sensitive rendering of the lines 
that there should not be any objective indication of the stress*; 
for this would fall on an unimportant syllable and would at 
once give the impression of ‘ doggerel.’ But it is of the utmost 
importance to remember that such lines are and always must 
be in a minority, even in the freest and most varied verse. 
The majority of lines do (*ontain a regular number of stresses 
which are objectively indicated by the ordinary pronunciation 
of the words in their everyday use in speech. (The earlier 
part of this article has attem])ted to analyse how this is done.) 
This recurrence of actual stresses sets the ‘ time -beater ’ or 
‘ metronome ’ going in the reader’s head ; so that when he 
comes to a line where an actual stress is deficient, he imme- 
diately supplies it mentally. (See p. 34 for a fuller analysis 
of this.) 

' • 

Similarly, if he meets a line where there are an excessive 
number of syllables which in ordinary speech would be stressed, 
the mental time-beater selects the proper number for the 
purpose of the verse-rhythm, as in Milton’s famous line 

Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens and shades of death. 

In this case there is also an increase of the time interval be- 
tween the stresses, and therefore the slowing of the w'hole time 
of the music, the ritenuto referred to above. But the reader 
is only able to supply the mental stresses with certainty be- 
cause in a number of adjacent lines the regular number of 
stresses and no more are actually piesent. Many lines in 
Milton could hardly be recognised as blank verse if they stood 
in complete isolation ; and it very often happens, as in Shelley’s 
poem quoted above, that there may be genuine and legitimate 
doubt about the scansion of certain lines, which can only be 
settled by comparing them with other corresponding lines 
or with the general structure of the poem. 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


23 


Some critics have fallen foul of the statement that the 
intervals measured by the stresses are isochronous. It may 
be true that the times are exactly equal only in nursery rhymes 
ajnd other simple and more or less primitive types of verse. 
But I believe that in any Verse which is regular enough to be 
submitted to any sort of formal scansion there is a very fair 
regularity in the length of the feet if the reader or reciter 
knows his business and has a good sense of rhythm. It is of 
course only too easy to recite Shakespeare in such a way that 
it might just as well be prose. 

Patmore rightly emphasises the close analogies between 
poetry and music, and these have been further developed by 
other writers such as Dr. McColl. Saintsbury poured scorn 
on this idea, but did not really bring any arguments to meet 
it. He wrote that “ the laws of singing are not the laws of 
saying,” and left it at that. It is indeed true that no close 
analogy can be found between the intonation of poetry and 
the melody *of music ; and also that when poetry is set to 
music and sung the natural verse rhythm is practically always 
distorted to some extent. But all this is beside the point, 
which is that in every language poetry has from the earliest 
times been associated with the rhythms of singing and dancing, 
with their regularly recurring stress, beat or ictus. 

One important practical consideration emerges from this 
analogy. In European musical notation, the rhythmical unit, 
or “ bar” (corresponding roughly to the foot of poetry) is 
always regarded as beginning with a ‘ strong beat ’ or stress.^ 
There may also be a subsidiary stress half way through the bar 
if it contains an even number of time-units (corresponding to 
syllables in poetry), but in this case the bar can really be re- 
solved into two, each beginning with a stress. Other notes 
in the bar may be and often are specially emphasised, but in 

^ In music the word ‘ beat ’ is used of the unit of time, corresponding to the syllabi© 
in verse, of which there may be 2. 3, 4 or more in each bar. But it is the first or stressed 

of the bar which is really analogous to the Ictm of verse. Here, as in the cause of 
♦ ^^ccont, ’ the terminology is confusing. 



24 . 


REV. C. S. MILFORD 


this case there is always felt to be a conflict between the regu* 
larly recurring stress at the beginning of each bar, and the special 
emphasis ; this conflict is called ‘ syncopation.’ Now this 
method of notation is not accidental, but records the fa(it 
that, if time is divided into regular intervals, we can only measure 
the intervals from one point of division to the next. As Dr. 
McColl points out, one cannot measure the intervals between 
the strokes of a bell except from the strokes themselves ; or, 
to take Patmore’s figure, we should measure lengths of railing 
from post to post, not from some point intermediate between 
the posts. This point is dealt with in detail by Prof. Thomson 
and also by the French writer Verrier.^ 

The practical importance of this is that if we scan poetry 
on the musical analogy, as Patmore and Dr. McColl do, the 
divisions, whether we call them bars, feet or measures, will 
always begin with a stressed syllable, thus rendering obsolete 
the classical analysis into iambus, anapest, etc. It is true of 
course that what has usually been called ‘ iambic rhythm ’ is 
something real and objective, but this is clearly indicated 
in the ‘ mu.sical ’ notation by the presence at the beginning 
of the line of an ‘ u{)-beat ’ or ‘ anacrusis ’ before the start 
of the first foot.^ 

It may be objected that this is really a distinction without 
a difference ; and indeed from the practical point of view, 
provided the stresses are correctly marked, it often matters 
very little how the syllables are grouped into feet. But this 
method, of always beginning the foot with a stress, has three 


1 P. Verrier, Easai aur lea PrinrAplea de la Metrique Anglahef 1909. 

These scholars argue that the vowel sound is the most prominent port of a syllable ; 
they therefore reckon the stress from the beginning of the vowel of the stressed syllable 
attaching any preceding consonants to the previous syllable. This requires very awk- 
ward notation and such accuracy is not needed for ordinary purposes. 

* In l>eating time the stress is always indicated by a downward movement of the 
hand. An iambic line will therefore start with an upward movement, indicating the 
preliminary unstressed syllable. Cf. the use of the Greek word ‘ thesis ’ to indicate the 
stress -originally derived from the downward movement of the foot in dancing or marching. 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


25 

advantages : (1) As we have seen, it corresponds to the actual 
facts of measurement. (2) It simplifies the scansion, and 
should encourage the elimination of the classical terms which 
Qow do little but darken counsel in English prosody. (3) 
In many cases it greatly helps in indicating the. true division 
of time on which the rhythm depends. Take this line of 
Shelley : 

The 'one | remains, | the 'ma | ny change | and 'pass. 

If it is scanned in the conventional way as above, this quite 
fails to represent the rhythm, since the foot ‘ the ma — ’ is 
obviously much shorter in actual duration than the others. 
Some prosodists would write j the 'many | 'change ; this 
has the advantage of suggesting the rest after ‘ many ’ which 
is essential to the metre, but it brings the stress into the middle 
of the foot and so deprives it of its function as indicating the 
divisions of time. On the other hand 

The I 'ofie re | 'mains, the | 'many | 'change and | 'pass 
accurately indicates the rhythm, since the stresses do actually 
follow each other at regular intervals. Some indication of 
the slight rest after ‘ many ’ (needed to fill up the time of the 
foot since the second syllable with its short vowel cannot be 
lengthened to any appreciable extent) may be added if greater 
accuracy is desired. 

Some instances will be given later of scansion according 
to this method. It may be added that it simplifies matters 
by eliminating the need for assuming ‘ inversion,’ ‘ resolution ’ 
and other devices which have been supposed in order to explain 
‘ irregularities ’ more particularly in blank verse. 

Another advantage of the ‘ musical ’ or ‘ bar ’ method 
of scansion is that it helps in the recognition of rests, which 
is vital for the proper understanding of English verse. Here 
also Patmore was an important pioneer, though he acknowledged 
his own debt to Joshua Steele.^ 

^ Patmore himself uses the word ‘ pause ’ throughout ; but as explained abO¥<^^. 

4r~- 1245 BJ. 



REV. C. S. MILFORD 


2 «^ 

This section of my argument would be best explained 
by making use of ordinary European musical notation. 
I shall try however to make it clear without using this. In 
the musical setting of any hymn in ‘ Common Metre ’ (i.e„ 
what the prosodists would call alternate lines of iambic tetra- 
meter and iambic trimeter) it will be found that the lines 
are arranged as follows : — 

0 I God our I help in | a- ges I past 
Our I hope for I years to | come, — | — 

Be I thou our | guard while | troubles | last 
And I our e- j ternal | home. — | — 

Here, the longer vertical lines represent the divisions between 
bars, each consisting of four ‘ beats ’ or notes ; the shorter 
lines shew the secondary stresses dividing each bar into two. 
(As was remarked above, for the purpose of scansion each 
bar can virtually be regarded as tw'o separate h'et ) It will 
be seen that counting the dashes at the end of the' second and 
fourth lines the whole stanza contains exactly eight bars or 
sixteen feet, the unstressed “ iip-lxiat " at the beginning 
of each line completing the last bar of tin* previous line, and 
that at the beginning of the stanza corresponding to the miss- 
ing syllable at the end. In the musical rendering the time 
periods represented by the dashes at the ends of the second 
and fourth lines would probably be occupied by continuing 
the sound of the last word of the line through three-quarters 
of a bar; but the rhythmical effect would be precisely the 
same if part or all of this period were filled by a rest, which 
would probably be the case if the lines were said instead of 
being sung. 

The same principle can be seen even more strikingly in 
“ Short Metre ” (i.c., iambic trimeter with tetrameter in the 
third line) ; 

p. 15 note. r?«< is the correct term. It is extraordinary how many writers have ianorod 
this diRtinotion, familiar to ail miifiiciaivi. 



ISNGLISH prosody 


ii 


A I man that | looks on | glass — ] — 

On I it may I stay his [ eye : — | — 

Or I if he I pleaseth, | through it i pass, 

• And I then the | heaven es- | py — | — . 

Similarly, in stanzas consisting of four “ iambic trimeter ” 
lines only, the lengthened note or rest occurs at the end of 
every hne, and the stanza still contains the same eight bars 
or sixteen feet as in the two previous cases. Finally, a stanza^ 
consisting of four “ tetrameter ” lines containing eight syllables 
each, will be fitted into exactly the same musical scheme of 
eight bars, only in this case there will be no lengthened notes 
or rests at the end of any line. 

This and other similar considerations led Patmore to 
lay down the principle that the real unit of English verse is 
a double foot corresponding to the full bar of the musical 
setting ; and that every line really consists of two or more of 
these double feet, which are completed where necessary by 
rests. “ Nothing but the unaccountable disregard, by proso* 
dians, of final pauses ^ could have prevented the observation, 
of the great general law, which I believe that I am now, for 
the first time, stating, that the elementary measure, or integer, 
of English verse is double the measure of ordinary prose — 
that is to say, it is the space which is bovmded by alternate 
accents, that every verse proper contains two, three, or four 
of these “ meters,” or, as with a little allowance they may 
be called, “ dipodes.” {Op. ciL, p. 44.) 

It may be uhat this rule is not of universal application, 
but I believe that it is very widely true ; and that generally 
speaking every line of blank verse contains at its end a rest 
equivalent to the length of one foot, thus making up the three 
meters or bars of Patmore’s reckoning ; though of course part 
of the normal rest is often occupied by the extra syllable of 

the “ feminine ending.” Here are a few lines from Paradise 

# 

Lost scanned on these principles : 

^ As previously explained, ** rest would be more correct bere* 



'^8 REV. C. S. MILFORD 

Had I 'cast him | 'out from j 'Heaven, with | 'all his | 'host — | '— 
Of I 'rebel j 'Angels, | by whose | aid, as | 'piring | ' — 

To I 'set him | 'self in | 'glory a | 'bove his | 'peers, — | ' — 

He I 'trusted | to have | 'equalled j the Most | 'High. — | ' — • 

(The difficult question of the proper treatment of lines with 
less than the proper number of stresses will be discussed later.) 
It may not be possible to apply this rule rigidly in every case 
often when the sense runs on without a break from one line 
to the next, a rest equivalent to a whole foot would seem 
excessive. But generally speaking I believe that this principle 
will be found a useful guide in reading and recitation to decide 
the interval required to mark the break between one line and 
the next. Patmore rightly points out that either rhyme or 
alliteration may serve the practical purpose of indicating the 
divisions between the lines ; and where both these are lacking 
the “ rest ” is absolutely essential. 

The musical analogy is also very hclpfid in tlu* j)roiX5r 
recognition of internal rests. These lines, 

I I 'vow to I 'thee, my | 'country | ' — all ] 'earthly | 'things 

a I 'bove, — | ' — 

En I 'tire and | 'whole and j 'jxjrfect, j ' — the | 'service | of 

my I 'love. — | ' — 

make utter metrical nonsense unless the “ stressed rest ” as 
we may perhaps call it, in the middle of each line, is recognised. 
The same metrical effect could perhaps be more clearly indicated 
by printing each line as two, as follows : 

I vow to thee my coimtry, 

All earthly things above. 

The true nature of the metre is very clearly shewn in this parti- 
cular poem by some of the later lines in which every foot is 
filled by syllables : e.g.. 

Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering. 



JsNGLISH PROSODt 


20 


The same thing is true of Tennyson’s poem The Valley of 
Cauteritz, which has puzzled some prosodists, beginning : 

'All a I 'long the | 'valley, | '— | 'stream that | 'flashes | 

'white. — j ' I 

In this case again some of the later lines fill the rests with 
syllables 

There is no objection to retaining the term “ foot,” 
provided that it is understood to mean the stress group as a 
verse unit, corresponding to the bar in music but always with 
one stress only, and that at the beginning ; and that its associa- 
tions with classical terminology are forgotten. 

As we have seen, a foot may contain no syllables at all — 
it may consist entirely of rests. It may contain one syllable 
only — and this may be either a stressed syllable, as at the end 
of a blank verse line, or an unstressed syllable as at the begin- 
ning of a line of blank verse, or the beginning of the second 
half of the fine quoted above, “ all earthly things above.” 
Usually of course the foot has two syllables, a stressed followed 
by an unstressed. Note that in all these cases there is no 
difference whatever in the rhythm of the foot ; rhythmically, 
the rests simply take the place of syllables. Again, the stressed 
syllable may be followed by two unstressed, giving “ dactylic ” 
or ” anapestic ” rhythm. Such trisyllabic feet are of course 
freely mixed with the disyllabic in most verse ; when they 
occur in considerable numbers, they impart a special quality 
to the lines, but it is difficult in many cases to lay down any 
hard and fast division between the two types of rhythm. The 
question of the relative lengths of time occupied by the different 
syllables of the foot is a rather difficult one on which some- 
thing will be said later. 

Are there ever more than three syllables in a verse foot ? 
In the stress-groups of prose, which as Patmore and others 
have pointed out, are the raw material of speech which is re- 
fined and regularised into the foot of verse, there are often more 



30 


REV. C. S. MILFORD 


than three. Here is a sentence of De Quincey with the stress 
groups marked oft. “ And the | grandeur of | these | two | 
terminal | objects is har | moniously sup | ported by the 
ro I mantic | circumstances of the | flight.” In this short 
sentence we have one group of four syllables, two of five, and 
one of six. This is possible in prose because although some 
critics have claimed to find some rough ‘ isochronism ’ between 
these stress-groups, it is certainly only very approximate, and 
it is permissible to leave longer gaps between the stresses where 
a large number of syllables intervene. Even for prose however, 
the last group in this sentence is something of a “ mouthful ” 
and would be an exacting test for reading aloud ; because it 
is felt that even in prose too many unstressed syllables in 
succession make something of a jumble. In verse where the 
isochronism is more strict, it would obviously be difficult to fit 
as many as four syllables into the time normally oec^uffied by 
only two, and feet of more than three syllables are therefore 
very rare, if they exist at all. In this line from * Paradise Lost, 

“ MiUions of spiritual creatures walk the earth,” 

the second foot apparently has four syllables ; but there is 
evidence that IVIilton habitually treated ‘ spirit ’ as a single 
syllable, hke the alternative form ‘ sprite.’ And in any case 
all the four syllables here are exceptionally short. A few 
oases could also be quoted where a two syllable foot at the end 
of a line is followed without a rest by a two-syllable anacrusis 
at the beginning of the next, as in these lines from The Orovea 
of Blarney : 

Planted in order 

In the rocky nooks. 

There is a tendency among some modern poets to use 
what appear to be four-syllable feet, in a virile and bustling 
kind of verse, such as Masefield’s Cargoes : 

'Dirty British | 'coaster with a j 'salt-caked | 'Smoke stack 
Butting through the ] 'channel in the | 'mad March | 'days. 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


31 


Ki p ling has done the same kind of thing. 

These feet easily divide into two, and the lines might 
reasonably be scanned as eight feet, though this would make 
them very heavy. If we regard the feet as having four sylla- 
bles, their pronunciation is made easier by the fact that in 
many of them the third syllable is one which might carry a 
stress, and tends to subdivide the foot. The same tendency 
is seen carried a stage further in Vachell Lindsay’s The Congo : 

Fat blackbucks in a wine-barrel room. 

Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable. 

Sagged and reeled and | pounded on the | table, 
'Pounded | 'on the j 'table. | ' 

I 'Beat an empty | 'bai'rel with the | 'handle of a | broom. 
Hard as they were able. 

The four-syllable feet marked off here contain no subsidiary 
stress, while the short lines interspersed suggest that the long 
lines should not be scanned with more than four feet. The 
analogy of the long lines here has the effect of ensuring that 
the short lines are pronounced slowly and heavily. 

One further question arises which is of importance in the 
discussion of rhythm ; it is the relative lengths of time occupied 
by the syllables, or syllables and rests, within the foot. This 
is a difficult question and one which is hard to treat with any 
scientific accuracy because so much depends on the taste of 
the individual reader. But something must be said about it 
if only because such misleading statements have been made 
even by otherwise trustworthy authorities. 

The rhythm of western music can mostly be broadly 
divided into two types, according to whether the^main division 
of the “ bar ” is into two or four “ beats ” on the one^^hand, 
or three on the other. These two types are commonly re- 
ferred to by prosodists as duple and triple measure respectively. 
(It may be mentioned here that according to Greek and Latin 
prosodists the spondee, dactyl and anapest were all duple 



32 * 


REV. C. S. MILFORD 


measures ; in the two latter the two short syllables were 
regarded as occupying the same length of time as the long 
one. The trochee and iambus on the other hand were triple, 
since the long syllable was twice the length of the short.} 
Many English metres can be recognised without any 
controversy as triple, e.g., the dactyls of Browning’s Cavalier 
Songs : 

'Kentish Sir | 'Byng | stood for his | 'king,- — ’ 

'Bidding the { 'crop-headed | 'parliament | 'swing.-: 

Obviously these lines have no resemblance to the classical 
dactyl, for the inititd stressed syllables of the feet cannot with 
any consistency be made twice as long as each of the succeeding 
unstressed. As we have seen in the analysis of stress above, 
stressed syllables in English may be very short, and this is 
conspicuously so. in these two lines in the case of “ bid ” and 
“ crop.” Everyone would probably agree that we have here 
a triple metre in which each syllable of the foot is a])proximately 
equal in length to the others. There can be no rigid equality : 
in some feet, such as “ parliament,” the ratio would be 
Ij : I : 1 rathei' than 1:1:1 : — this is a variant of triple timej 
which is very common in music, and would seem to lit a great^ 
many “ dactylic ” feet in English. But in any case the rhythnt 
is still clearly triple and not duple. The monosyllabic feet 
are of course no exception to this : but in these feet the singly 
syllable may be extended to occupy the whole time-interval, 
or a short rest may be left at the end of the foot. This is a 
matter of taste and makes no difference whatever to the 
rhythm. 

Generally speaking, Enghsh metres with disyllabic feet 
seem also to be usually in triple time. If we take any normal 
“ iambic ” or “ trochaic ” line, e.g.. 

Had cast him out of heaven with all his host. 

0 enter then His gates with praise. 

The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


33 


It seems quite clear that the stressed syllables are normally 
longer than the unstressed, and that a ratio of 2 : 1 fairly 
represents the relative length of the syllables. Of course it is 
nofr true that the stressed syllable is always the longer ; we 
have seen above that in many cases the stressed syllable is 
very short. In these cases the other syllable is proportionately 
lengthened to fill the time-interval, so that the time ratio is 
reversed and becomes 1 : 2. This is illustrated by two feet 
in the line. 

The I 'village | 'smithy | stands. 

But it is still true that the time is triple, one syllable being 
approximately twice as long as the other. 

The same thing is true of the trisyllabic feet which are 
very frequent in blank verse and other generally disyllabic 
metres, specially at the beginning of a line : e.g., 

'Aw’d when he | hears his Godlike Romans rage, 

(These lines have commonly been explained by supposing 
“ inversion,” i.e., the substitution of a trochee for an iambus 
m the first foot. This explanation is meaningless if we start 
from the principle stated above, that the stress must fall at 
the beginning of each time-division ; though these lines do 
of course get a special character from the fact that there is 
no preliminary unstressed syllable or anacrusis.) Here, as 
in other “ dactylic ” feet, the ratio ^ : 1 would seem usually 
to represent fairly the rhythm — again it is triple time. 

Is there any such thing as “ duple time ” or “ duple 
measure ” in English verse ? 

i;i) It is found as a regular metre in such poems as those 
quoted by Masefield and Vachell Lindsay. This kind of metre 
is not at all common. 

(2) Duple feet are found in blank verse and other triple 
metres in two special cases, which occur very commonly, (a) 
When there is an excessive number of syllables which in prose 

6—1245 B.J. 



u 


REV. C. S. MILEORE 


would be stressed, as in the line of Milton already quoted 
above : 

Rooks, caves, lakes, fens, b(^s, dens and shades of death. 

Here in the first two feet the metrically unstressed syllables 
are equal in length to the stressed. We have therefore here 
feet in duple time with a marked slowing of the speed, or 
“ ritenuto.” (b) I believe the same is true of those lines where 
there are less than the proper number of stresses : e.g.. 

Of I 'rebel | 'Angels | by whose | 'aid as | 'piring 

'Under the j 'reign of j 'Chaos | and old | 'Night. 

In the feet “ by whose ” and “ and old ” a good reader would 
make the two syllables approximately equal in length, thus 
helping to give the impression that neither is stressed. As 
neither is very short, the normal time interval is comfortably 
filled. 

(In Western music this interspersion of duple time among 
triple bars is often found. The following notation 

4(*C(*lrrrl(‘ rlr rirrri 

indicates that in the bars with a bracket and “ 2 ” over them 
the two notes occupy exactly the same total time as the three 
notes in the other bars. In the lines quoted above therefore 
the ratio in the normal feet would be 2 : 1, and in those with- 
out stresses IJ : IJ.) 

It may also be noted here in conclusion that these lines 
in which there are less than the normal number of stresses 
are specially difficult to scan to any rigid way, and depend 
greatly on individual interpretation. In some cases, it would 
seem that the missing stress falls on a rest ; this is specially 
so where there is a slight logical pause in the sense, whether 
or not it is marked by a comma, e.g.. 

To I 'Shakespeare’s f 'critic, | ' — ^he be ( qiieathes the | 'curse 
Afid I 'leaves the \ 'world to | 'darkness | ' — and to ( 'me. 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


36 


Though the latter line could also certainly be read : 

And leaves the world to | 'darkness | and to | 'me. 

T. S. Omond, in his ‘ Study of Metre ’ already referred to, 
argues that blank verse is really always a duple measure. 
He takes his stand on those exceptional lines such as “ Rocks, 
caves, ” etc., and contends that these give us the basic rhythm 
of all the lines. He admits that in normal lines the unstressed 
syllables are not as long as the stressed ; but he supposes 
that the remaining time is filled up by rests. On this basis 
he argues that blank verse reproduces the dignity and sonority 
of the classical Dactylic Hexameter, the metre of epic poetry. 
It is difficult to criticise such a theory adequately without 
the possibility of a practical demonstration of reading or 
reciting in such a way, but I am quite certain that in the great 
majority of ordinary lines, such as, 

Had cast him out from heaven with all his host, 

such a method of scansion if it was really put into practice 
would produce a ridiculously halting effect. 

A few words may be said in conclusion about the use of 
classical terms in English prosody. Some of them are useful 
and it would be difficult to avoid them without either cum- 
brous periphrases or some newly invented jargon, but it is 
true that they can be misleading as well as an unnecessary 
burden to students. 

“ Foot ” is a convenient term which may be used if it is 
clearly understood that it means a “ Stress-group,” i.e., a group 
of syllables of which the l)eginning is marked by one of the 
regularly recurring stresses of verse. The terms “ dimeter ” 
“ trimeter,” etc., are also very convenient. When we come 
to the names of the different kinds of feet the question is more 
difficult. In classical prosody these names referred only to 
the length of the various syllables of the feet. As used by 
English writers they have commonly been taken to classify 
feet according to the position of the stressed syllable. But 



36 . 


REV. C. S. MILFORD 


unfortunately writers who have so used them have constantly 
allowed the length factor to intrude itself, because of their 
actual associations with the classical metres, and great con- 
fusion has resulted. In particular, spondee has constantly 
been used to describe feet such as the second foot in this line : 

The I lowing | herd winds | slowly o’er the lea. 

This foot as we have seen above (p. 17) has a very distinctive 
character through the great length of the unstressed syllable 
‘ winds.’ But if we call it a spondee then we are beginning 
to classify feet by the length of the syllables and not by the 
stresses. A spondee in stress-scansion would really be a con- 
tradiction in terms. For if both the syllables ‘ herd ’ and 
‘ wind ’ really carried metriml stress, ^ then the foot would 
cease to be one foot ; each syllable would then be a mono- 
syllabic foot with a slight rest after the stressed syllable, and 
the line would then become a hexameter. It would be perfectly 
possible to scan the line like this in isolation, but in the context 
it would obviously break up the whole structure of the stanza. 

In fact if the classical names of feet are to be used at all 
they should be clearly defined, so that it is understood that 
they either refer to stress only, or to length only, and this 
application should be consistently kept to. 

If we use them with reference to stress only, then according 
to the method of scansion suggested in this article there can 
be only two kinds of feet in English, the trochee and the dactyl. 
Another name would have to be invented for the foot consisting 
of one stressed syllable only, though this might perhaps be 
called a catalectic trochee. On the whole it would seem that 
in this case there is very little point in retaining the classical 
names at all. 


^ It has already been explained above that there may be other syllables in the line 
which would be stressed if the passage were read as prose ; but that for metrical purpose 
some of these stresses must be ignored. It will very often, though not always, happen 
that such syllables will also be long and therefore give the “ spondaic effect referred 
to above, 



ENGLISH PROSODY 


37 


On the other hand, it would be quite possible to use the 
classical names with strict reference to length only, ignoring 
stress altogether. But in this case it would have to be made 
blear that the names would no longer have any reference to 
the scansion in the way that they did in classical verse, but 
that they simply indicate roughly the relative lengths of the 
syllables within the foot-divisions as already determined by 
the recurring stresses. (As far as I know this has never been 
done in English poetry : those writers such as Bridges who 
have tried to write “ quantitative verse ” have tried to use 
the quantity as a basis of scansion in the classical sense, either 
in place of, or in conjunction with, stress — an attempt which 
has only resulted in hopeless confusion. It would be easy 
but profitless to analyse and shew the hopeless artificiality 
of the attempts by English writers in Alcaics, Hendeca-syllables, 
or other Greek and Latin metres.) If we adopt this special 
meaning for the terms, with reference to length, we should 
scan as follows : 

'Under a | 'spreading | chestnut | 'tree the | 'village | 
'smithy | 'stands. 

Here both the stresses, determining the beginning of each 
foot, and also the length (with the signs used in classical verse) 
are marked. According to length, the feet would be called 
dactyl, iambus, trochee, trochee- iambus, iambus, catalectic- 
trochee. With this system, it would of course be perfectly 
proper to use the term spondee of a foot such as that in Gray’s 
line quoted above. But it would seem that in this case also 
the classical terminology would be an \innecessary complication, 
and at the same time would fail to indicate some of the subtler 
points of relative length which can be easily shewn by the 
system of numbers suggested above. 






?l^fR Tf5 5TfC^ ^h (It^ ^b'58 

l(ti£i ^t^^ltft ) ^C*lt^ fWSTt?( 'm'^ ^t?t?ltt^ <5ttCT 

I (7f^ jjsini Rc*t^ ^w\ 

% I f^'^1 's f^^r^«i '£ig^ (ii^t ^»lt^ 

^ >2tf«^f% 1 <;t^^«l VP5 

tllsRl 

^Hrf^’?tc^ (Tf'e^ttr 'srtwt^ic^ ^fpiI 'sitii^ 

cfl^'s ^ m 5Th» 1 3I^VfC5W Jlt^l 

C'T^ tfl^ri f^5ir^ C’Mt^*! C^ 

^k^^ 1 ’IW i3t^1 W^<5f5*l 

- f%i I t£i^ ^*1 nft^ 

'Stc^ji:^ c^m ^ i f^f^ w ^ stftussi ^t5t?j 

<ir5l%®1 ^CeR I 

^C3i I f^r^ ^ 

^tflC^R ^t5l ^C??, ^Ivt^cnil'S 1 #W?l 

^*t?[ “^” ^ 'Q 

fk^n 1 ^f\^f'm tlc^i^ I ^^^^[ mi w 

'^‘t^ ^?} 1 ?it^ %t5n? ^ <5^’ I *i^H^i'5l, 

'£f^ '^*t'8 f%f^ ni^frt|c«15{ I 

?IN 5^C31it fRC*tW? 'ttCt?f 5^3f ^ 1 



5RN "Sif^i^ ^?ltt|c«1*« I b*f*t^ l^f^ 'S|^l^ 'STSTff?^ «il^*s C^t*Pl 

flcq^ I ^f^R; ^t^C?[^ t|t^?I 51^sii2tRt^ CW^ ^ ^'®, 

(71^*t (Rt5('« atf 5.^C^ 

ifi I 5jts(pi^ 5f^?i (ft^ ^f?i?ri 1 

>2JC^0 «2rf%^ ^«t1 

^vni Rhsaf 1 |;|5t^ ^e^\ c^pqq 

5^tf|C5W I 

cjf% ft1%-'35i^Rfft >£i<?icii >srf5)j ^^“itsTfr^ '^?R^t*tc^i^ 

■^PW5l I '$^ #f5t^ ft®1 s«rt%«^ I ’ItW^ 

ft3I f|C®R 1 51t<i<l|bt. 51W 

1 1% <2t^tc^ ^l^3p5? 

^T^T'I '2|S(R t5^ 1 f®1^ ^C^->lt*:CT ij^iSlt^W 

ffCe^^t I 1 

^Te,*t^ fleets? *1 sp^Tfl 

fra?t*i 

^?rl ^tcl aa<t«l 1 <gt^ "HUi >fl«!t5l 

^^irtf^C«lSl I ^c^[sl 5!^C®'Q f%fi? 'SliJ^'^gi 1 

'2f’ff5 ^^<ltC^?J f®fil ^<V sitC^ ^ 1 

1%f^ fs(tW'€ '5f51 *1^® I C*l*ffft 

fkz^^ 1 ^ ffsi 1 Jit^f^ 

s»^«t<i® (fi'^f® c^rtfffi^ ^’*1’? 1 

’Ttftf^R #r^c5i^ <£mm f|?i 

^®tf^®i, ^ ^RU’s^i^ vQ ^ >nM?i^ft?i 

iSll^Fo^ ctW% I l£l^ 5R^ ^ ';®tl?t?I '5fws» 

’tk Rf^f|«1 1 SI^WC^ ^ 

^mms 1 I 

-^^ 0 ^ «ni ^ I if)^ 

CW 'BI^ 



^tf^tflc^T^ I ^ f3r*Fl 

■iSF^^Cqs^ I ^Pl^5! ^ *rt#f?R 2Tt® 1” * 

-af fk^ I '£ff fwft f5irf^ I 

CJfMNt^ '5f-^to ^ ^Rt?f W7^ 

iSRf 'JSf9f^ ^’IW^ ^ I W’JTf 

C'fRc^ (TfRc® ^’iRl I '2ftC*l '«l<l'J{k4tC«1 

ytTflJj^tfl ^C«fl ^^31 I C«fJt«.’»tt?TtC^ 

5#^C^ >|«?1C^ ifl^l* <£(tff®^ C’Ti^wC^J 

(i]'® f^csiffe^' *tf%i:^5i c^ ^**11 I 

fj^%C<?f >2ftsi1^ W ^t?l '^ht*n 

I ^t5?( fw^Tf^ Cft^ '2tt^ i2ff ^*1^ 

iftiff 1 “meet nurse for a poetic child ” ^eTl ’Till 1 

5lft >2ft^^ #t5tC^ I 

sssi^^tc^^ f^f^ #ratfic5iJi, ! c^ c^t^itii ^c?f ’tf^ 

‘tfc^ (?f^ 1 ” f^l^ ^itca3tr®?r 

■^e^Rl ^ I fl®l CT C’TC*! 

“yi®^, c5 -RW, *1^ c^it^ ^ I 

5r®^ cst*rff^ ^«f1 ^ ^ ; 

>i^ ( CTsif^ <?it^ f^"rf^ 

C»ftCJl 5lW-'*ff *Pff^ ) ^ ^5T^— 
i^l^ (fi ^iw '®rff^ <3lf%^ I— 

t£i c^?i ^?r ? 

5150 f%f^ 'srito^i I '2i«iO 

f^’Jjl ^ 551, ^ 

* c«(i%a’rt'< ’il'?w wm wtwfii^’ I 



1 F^C^ 1 RttHC^ 

^ «fJt®5rR1 '®IS(JT’^ ^‘Gt’tRl I »R>tf»lR^ ftai’tt*!^ 

*ICSff ^^Tirfl|*l '« ^'«ft*Tf*(Ttll ^^RfF'S I 

-sfc^ I 'srf^ '*»i»(hw^ 

:5i*(Nt ffs ^Rri1 «tjit%^'5 1 (sm*\ ■■£ff^^ 

CT >i?rf*fitft sns^i oEfsjiH 

“Sfg^ 5IC«fT 51CMT ?)t?( ^ r 

»nR^ sri I 'Sff^ ^«,3i<( f%f% ft3jc^ '5jt%3p3? ^^rl 

^55^^ c«t%5 ^€t4 (il^^ ^ ^Rc^s? 1 ?lt3i 5«.»IC55 

5C5T 5«f^RF5 'srf^'S ^^l55l '=lt^^ f5.c5. C<St% 

5?Tl 5t5 (Tit nfl5TflC?!il I '51515*1^1121 

f5^R®Rl5 •?TRf'® ^ *ltt I 15*^1^ '« R.ifJ. *ltP¥l 'SiRfW'S f|51 I 

#155 NS W^55 te 5t'$ I R 1 R 55 

f5'll5 CSt^C'S #515 -2155 Cai^5 11351*15 .2jf(5C5t#l5 

•gt^ '5|f55it5 5F|551 5^W5 =5f5*f555' 2lT« 5^55 I 'tM5 
5^ 5f55lC15, “55CT 5^ 'SIl5l '5IC5^ C# f|5, RP^ lil# ^t5l5 Rllt# 
C5 '5itsilf5:55 '5IC55F 5C5 f^^Z^ZW '©l^ 5^51 Rwcat^l^®! 

#3R ^f55l ^C5'#'« '5|ia sicsfi «rt5tt5C55 55t*Oltt iFt5lt|51 l” 
'^W5 ^51515115 5^^'fC55 n 8 f|C2=R I f^f5 Rlf55lC15, 

^5'®5*i ^f55l 35*^5 -iPC5 '®ll5lC^ '5i^j^ ltC35 5*3fC5 

'srtfe 5t5Tft21, 1^^ 5p 5115 -af^'Sl '5115 '^t5lU5NQ <# f 

#15^1 5tc«t 5^5W5 5rf5J'5I5 <2tf^ -21511 '5I^5t5 fk^ I 

51-31^51^ ll3 5f55l #fF'5 ftC215, ttC5#1 5F515 ^^5 ll3 
# 'sjat fl5 1 '5T5fl5J ll35C*f5 f^f^ 5^51 t*)^5tf5 

5°v5t553 -21115 #5lflC2T5 I 

'5|'5lf55F 5nR®I1^5lC55 W 5^55 5#1^(^55 .# f5C*t5 »WI 
5tf5U55 51 I 5R^ ^5155 t£l'?-2f^ ltfe5l f^1^t515 I tll5'tW5 

(Tt^%5 NS 15^^55 C-Ht^ 5lt5l 1135^*15 5C5T g^ C g fi^ gj | 

5??355 W 5ra5I .21555 ^R5lt|CP|5, “C551^5 CB^ 5Fto f^ 



sn 1” #1^ ?PTCT ’m 5TOil^ 

'S|«fJt*1^ >itt55|C?F 

c»r’«r%Tf|t«isi I #t®*it3f wt^c^s^ sil, ^51 f 51, ^1 tt^t^ ^ 

?s#f^ m <jfiT?i1 5i1 I 

Captain D. L. Eichardson ^CsiC^?! '« 

S5t5i f|5i I ^c5i^ if]^t ^ 

<I5S?1 ^f??(tfe5151 I ftIIi?tJ*t^ sicsn W^ 

1%f^ C5^1 f t^Pisrtw #t5tc^ '®itw*f^*1 

^^'5 'tt*^ '5l^f(^«tt?( 'St^^ ^W?I 5lTft^ ilFRl 

C5^ ^1?^ 1 5J^^5? Richardson 'sq'Sj^ I 

t“c^#r ^1^1 1 Eichardson 

>ltC^^<I ^ ^5J«1 5(^f55C5i?[ ^?csi?f 

^1^1 CT ftw ^*t*i^ ^TfRi ^■\^ 

Richardson*!)^ ^*fH 'sif 1?^ ^5i | Richards* n 5l^33WiRC^ 

515)(2f ^5?C^C»f nt»6t'?5J 

^5p1 'S 'sqt^^t'STII ^fef|5T I JJt^J 

«|551C;R) ^U5f 51W f5^1 *!1^^ *1^5)'^ CW«f1 C^ I *t(»Ft^I 

>rffe ^ P\^ >2rfft5i "sjt^ I cvH^t^9t*i 

<2}^ ’rtfe^J?) >2tf^ "srsj^ 'Sft^ ^ ’1%515) ; wi 

^?IC55lt5l ^S1 I W^ *1t»5t^J fw '« 51^1^ f^I 

(?f c>2i<i‘t1 ^tsfT# ^t1% f^w ^1'tm 

3F?l*t; ^'51 ^fk^1l51 1 *)W5 ’iC’’!' *Tf“6M '« 

fl«1 I ^S)C^ SlC5lt*5t^ 

^c?!# ^f^f|c5i;? I m f?tOTi 

^*raj^ I ’it\®it'5t?l-^Wi 'sW^J 'sjf^srs f|5i c?f, (i)^ 'st'^'l f»(^ ^- 

c««(s I ’^t*5m '8)1^^ ^1^ 



1 f%f^ 5rtfej^ 

Ftc=l 1 ^fvSlt^t’^til «£tf^ «I«r3Rl >IC^'Q 
<si-m^ 'si^ciiTc^f f^f^ 

^C^J( 1 Cflt W 3ptt ^ 1 

^'fl 

^<?|f?I?{ i^Vf s^fr i 

^ii'i m'^, c^r«i ^c^, 

iTf^RtR (Tf^ ^f«n5 I 

^ 

■^^*1 <£t^ c*ff^ >£f5»51 crst^ 1 
*itcw 

=^515 cTfs? *ic« »rra I” 

’^[€^55% tf)^3 ^?C5=i 5^31T^’ 5iT?jlfe 1 

V 

nt^ 5=if^^ 1 ^5tr^ '5iT«tji 

(Tf'6^ m ^d I tilt 'sitif 

5dt I ft^ 

(iit ^f^t'3^ f^f*«i’aifFC5T5i 1 ^f<^ 

By toil ffC 5 = 15 ( 1 t'sC^#t '«t^Bl ’tw- '« 

'It5t^ 5i?Tsfitfffwc?t^ ^m] c^3^t >f’q^’5p fkl^^ 5i1 1 tii^^ ^-f^l- 

'fl^ra-ilFlt?! >2(f^C5Itf^'5Bl f^fsi til^t 
’?t^ "^ciR I 3?Kg '5i^m»i 5»e.3^ ^w\ ^ 9 ^ <£t<fR 

’ifa^'<a%^ I i£m f%, 

tt«ii:'«^ c^RtQ ?RRi cta^i*! ^f?ir«5? 1 

*i^si tlr®t ts flw*i I 

' 8 l*(IOTtW ^^15^ 5t?rl I 31^3^ 

^1 ^ar-f?i?Ri ^%Tcm '»i^5fl®fFr5 



51^!^ Vf'5 *» 

1 (31^ ^c®Tcw ^t^^t^t?! i[t3i 

I '5R’?1 

5J5(<PP ^fSc*1»l I 5l^^5JR ^CeTtW iSC^ 

^ C<rtf%'« (Derozio) 5TtC5^ I fe a^'&[ 

'^ff^*ltC*l *tfifelf^^ I fe ^51 

I 

f®fi? ^1 f^l ^], ^t^5f«(C^ 

JiTsitf^^ '« ^TiTWts^C^ C^M’fftil ^e«5itf^® ^f?lt®ill 

m] ^ f^*5ft>i f ?rt^i 

®t5i 5(C5— fw I 

f^f^ ^^cw*t I f3?*^*tta-w^ mm \ 

f^s^JiSltCB? '®ItI5!t5J ^?11 1 

SC’F f #(5T^ «ft^*ri 

f|51 I ^>5^® lta?t*l 5=fi%q:T I 

®I^^1 ’'ft© ‘2t5‘) 'ff^i:®^! I frj5>i5jtcw 

^^iT’ltsi 'S C’tt5(t?.31-®f *1 -2l5f^® I C’fNtW^ ®?tf®^1 W ^f^%® 
*tf%5*tt^ ?T5rf#r^'8 c^’Jtw 5^c® 3i^c^ ^^i?[1 #15 :t?i 

^Twn»*( f^1 C’rW'Jf ^t^C® ’«ft^C® 5^C®i? c£iq? ^nflc® ^^1°v»t 

^f?)C®5=l I ^f^^t®T^ s^cstj 

^ C’^SgtFt^t I 'S fi(f^^-'«(1W-®’F*| 

^%® tile's (?f% ®j1’r I ap5i»tj 

f®f^ *(^<( ^5*1 5H’3 I ®151^ f^®t^ ll^ 

#tf^® 5^C®^ Fort 

Willian.iil I f^lf^ Old Mission 

Cburctiiil Archdeacon Deatry^ flf^ 

( C^PS^ttt, ^b-S® ) I (il^ ^ ^®T 



Sr ra 

51^;^ vf5” 1 if)t siasr^-’t^'5f5 *f^* 

Wl'® I c£|^ ^* 0 [ > 1 *IC^ 

siSRttt’T*! ^65^^ ?ttf^tf|C515i ;_ 

I 

Long sunk in superstition’s night, 

By Sin and Satan driven, — 

I saw not, — cared not for the light 
That leads the blind to heaven. 


II 

I sat in darkness — Reason's eye 
Was shut— was closed in me ; — 

I hasten’d to Eternity 
O’er Error’s dreadful sea ! 

* * * # • 

IV 

I’ve broke Affection’s tenderest ties 
For my blest Saviour’s sake : — 

All, all I love beneath the skies 
Lord ! I for thee forsake ! 

^5W<i \ 5r5m<t-3f5c*i tRtr? (pt t^fc^ 

’?*r^ ^ff’i I ^ 5 .^^ fl* 5 ^iitc 9 f 

1 wgr list's 

^v5t5*t "Jilt'S 'st^ «rtt^-5nfi*m ^*i f|q i 

>2t«ra fl^ I f^?5 51^’iFt-c'ttc^ (fi^ ^ sitt i 



W ’iFtos? ^ 1 1^ f^<a? ^fOTcw 

^ iff^ ^%615? I #1^ <3ira?l '5lf%6lM 

'»I’3;‘r ^JTRc^sf STl I ^PTCW 'Sl^ 

’^PTCW?? ^ ^U5 =ltf^ <11^ 

Ftf^ ?(€.51?J ^ ^‘(T’SR 1 ^ '^W CW? 

<I5sn-H^^ C>P3[, ^CSIW '«W-fl’>Ft^ C^ I lil^ 

JTf^?^ ) ^ 

I 5?t51[tf^*f ^IS.*tf% ^ <^£61 5ltf^-5ltS^5^T? yRIWn:^ 

^?1 ^ 5(1, (il^ *fm*tt^ 5I^W% 5^P15( 1 1^ <^, 
^nf%5?, fe35, ^?rf^, 'stf^si, (ij^v i£t^ ?pt^f^t6i '« 

'Bjt^;^ ^i( ^^f^Tff:6i5( I '»i^tt^ '« >rtf5c®j 

CT fRf^5('^ fS[J(tf f|C5W, -ssitsi^l *3P^ 

^%tf| I 1^*1^^ t%f5[ (Linguist) ’»flt1% 

5lt« 4 'Rc 61^ I 5^^i3iC*? f%f^ JtWTFt^ 'Q 1%'¥| 5m 

5|1 I ^5lW?I '®(‘2f5ra STff’fC^H, ^sitt^TSl 

^8 ff^ nttc^ 6itf^ 1 3p5i*fs f^6itf>r$t?( c2Jtc^ 

^f5I?l1 ^%615( I C'1‘t5?'« f|C615( f%lg Cilt 

5KeTCW ^Stl^J5(?FfC61 ^(f%FfC^<[ 5^51 5^C615( I tfl'^t^ 

Wtc^ ^«f W f^^*l 5R W 

^s:»i^ 5^1 I f i3i’r*i 'm m ^1 \ 

w 5(1 csFtcsf c^c6i<i Jit5i f < ^%1 5iTrr< c^i^ 

'®TT?t ^f^C6i5( I 5fi:Pic;^<[ ^s(jt*1^’t*i 

I 'It6rf?( C^ptq^, 'Q 5(S ^U5 3R»1S c»f’*n ^i:^ 

5lTf^ I f^T<! 5i1t^ %\m 5(C5?t5#lC^?l ^*1t^ ^61 1 ^>11- 

%^*f^5ttt f^1 Sf’$t^?l->51??*t^ ^*11 ^t?l 

'^?iir$j?i <£f<Hna 5(1 1 5(^*tc5i^ f^l 

wrc®?i 5it5(i?t?il ^ I 

WK c’t®! I *(*^i^-i2p5c*t<( 5iC9r '®rW®u-'5?65^ '« 

5r5i^9t*i %r5tr^ '^tt^ bw cfft^n^ i ^I^h 

'Bl<5tf«^ 5}^ I ’^Wt '21^ '£|'»1l(*(H 

?-l246 5.J, 



Ill’ll 

?rf1%®T I srt^^ w*ff^ 'si^ ^w*f ♦ff^’t 

^#Tfij ^1 I 'srKtu ^ "srort- 

^’f?! *lt^^?Rl '®rt#!l’?^rR<I 5^1%^ 

»icm*< lf ^c^< l f^ ^ 'Q ^51*11^ ^ 5itafi;^ 1 

#f5t?i f|5i ( 

^«ts< ^I5t? ?ti:^ 

,<1^ ^*#^'6 sn I f^S>I^t^, f^S>i^ •^t^ llti^ 

jfSfJTf:^ ^(»RI ?Ff^C«T5I I ll^H5t*l f^^t«RlC^ '»lT«r5 

I itns flp^at. =5^?it^ 

C^'« 'S'Wt^ I CT ’Tfsngj '®I< 

■4fj)?lff|P1*l, *itc«*t9 <£|'9f«P5 ^ 

t%f^ 'BTSPS ’ifecsTS^ I '®t^*r^, 511®TC® 

’tc^ ^?r5 ^>r^tc^ 1 '2f^t^ CT^tsaS^t^ f^fil 

'»rfC^5U «Tt% f%^ ^ I 

’®Rt«t fs;f§5 ^f?C5=R I 'iT^TPf^ 

f%^s,^tc=i t*tw5i ’3^'ti? 

♦}tf^<5}?K*l «lt^ft I <i]t ^ 

^f<w»w I Jitetc^ t£i^p»Tc^ c^sitr^ ^t5tr*iT 

^It2[t?r siprf^ ’Tfat c^^pTc^ ^f^PT*=i I * 

5K9? ^ %tm ^ ^ 

«rar srfsrtiw?! <a*f|5{ .sisff^ '®i1?^ i 

5ltf5P5I?l CT 'll^til 1^81 ^»lf?l3Ii!| 

I tf!^?pte1 

'srttwsff PT^i, t£Wi;*i 

^tJSt?l W^ >llf<^I-(7l^ 'sit^Fg ^f^CPR 1 f^jif Madras 

Circular and General Chronicle, Madras Spectator i£l^ AtheDaeum 





«£rf f% 'S?< I 'Bjf^ '8|?lf^CT?J 

*IC«0^ stWC^ ^ft^lsTfCW ^fsRD -^mf^ ?Tt% I 

Athenaeum .^?pfwl 

^•t 'si^ c?f *fci? f%f=? ^ ^ 'Sft^ I 

Madras Circular f^ t£l^ ^’tf’«tJt^ f?!%l 

*5l^!SC’1 ^C«=151 1 «5}^’«ftf^ 511*1 The Captive Lady I 

fk^ 511, ^ ^ '»W?f «#T5T, 

^sjsTTf^fwm tfi^ fc*5fW^i:% w >3f>3«rf^ sitatc^ 

>2f^ I ^ ^ 

^li^siiil «it^ ^tf5R[tf|c5T5i 1 

»ff^35rl <?i’*rtC5( <2im ?^*i ^PR I 

^ wi’it*! '®i^ iitwi 'srfspJi*! 1%^ ^ 'srfaus 

at^5t ?fR51 1 t^l^ The Captive Lady?I «2f1%»ttw ^ I 

^*tt’«nt5ilfec'5 ’iT»6ti5j <2i^R '5r$jfir^ 

'®«R f^fsi 51?,’^ 'Q *Rt 5rl 5TC«r 

^5{ ^ I %ff% git^l f^'« c®ws<sif1« 

^Rd’l ^f^?[1C^5i I ^ Sltcsj^ >1^ Timothy 

Penpoem, Esq. ^f^l;^5^ | The Captive LadyiS 

^ 1 ^ (Visions of the Past) stfspf cfl^ 

>2t5ftf%^ 1 

*11^51 ^C5151 51151, f%ig 

TO *fff% ^ I '5ITC5R 5r(^ I ^:p»r 

'8 %f»tt?[ ^IWif I ’tfr 5if^ #w?f 

15^51 I WSU *lfeT51 •[( I 

*1C^ 5rtetw C'SlRC'to*^ ^C*1C'8riI cJl^ 
c^*iRc?(^l C5rff%^ftc^ I 

5w*(f?rte*f I 

irtartcw <211^ 5tt3^vR:ai^ 4iwj<i -spFtft's 

is^ iitfit®! I <^C'* •tt^SR ^ t 



<»ii SR ^ ^§1^ I 'BitMi 

^F%*W, STfafftP??! f%f^ ^5tC?F ^vf-’ffill ^e.srrf^ STl 

si^f^ SRRil I W 

The Captive Lady SRTWC^^ nt^«1 

tflC^Rtra f^t <:9f51 I CRIST'S C^Ffs^ 51*^1^ 'IWCSF 

f%*f| c^«f ^f^csis? I The 

Captive Lady f^ilR C5^1 ^%rffC5R, 'sTft^^f 

R( I ^e.?Ft^R f^tsRtC®?^ cw. t f^. ’TtPF^ 

(^ff^WTsi ^T^h»fTl% 5|^^I >2f^T*i spfwfflceR,— 

s)%»R ’tf^wR'sR '®rf*^r^ ^ sRrg sRHi 5ngs?m»f 
?5sn STtfe^T? 5^1 'S 

^<rt CT 5(l{^v» ?pf^ 'Q *1tfQ^ «Tt^ 4R^IC5’*I, '4t5l sjfw 
sTTf^^ "^^R ^ 5i?[igrwa 

>lt^ i£l^K Wv 'smi-SfC^ff^Tfr® ^PR I ^ISTt^Rt?! 

(TRi^ fist '®f^’?1 15RTC15 (il^WSt ^bblf^eilft *U4 ^1 '5|C*t'Pl 

'asrR 7^^ itfR s<1 l” ci)^ SI^S^^CS^?} CU^s^l 

f^%1 ^51 I s#« ^*1^111 'tmt? 

^5t^ «5<-^?Isi fjpfell 'Sltfsi^ I 

cat^ Tt^l 'srf^R ^ffwl TTfr ifl^sjta ^t?Rl I 

4Rc^< 1 sjt^t^ C’frsC^ f?l1%$ ( ‘ ' hBtouiid the world 

with his lame”) ^1^ ^t®sFl % I "sm* 

'Blt^RlW I Sl^^^R srt^^st^ (TnRt^ ^ 

<itt% '51^ ^%5R 1 CT ^1% srtf^t^tc^ 

(?ffesi, til’PC*! '2(fR f ^ ^jCS 'Bltil^ s^r%1 
Tf»#l srfsii ^ ^ Risii <21^ '®f*n^ *Tt%?Tsi-i srteti«p 

1 ^tsrtsFCT si^^ 

^*fT 5^C2R 1 #RCSR ’W'S !5^®T I 

<2RtPl <51^51^ 51^^ c^!l'6 >l*s^ *1%55( 

iitf^ c^ fiWu C5^ ^\ 1 srtarRp-«w^- 



%51J? ^] 1 'S(fft^-=W5l?t*t'« 

'$n‘5t (i)^ tfr^ert^ ^'ft^ ■*f%i. 

1 (ilt '®R’31 * 1 T%) WWW 

^ft9t*H I 

sifcfftc^ *if^W5? '-e ^*fff% I 

«r®cfi^ t%f^ =^cwi:»f >£r«!t’f*i5? i 'sjt^ ^«,>i?i ^tc? 

■- SjtCT "SltfjlW^ I 

’WCWC^t ^®r, "WCW“| #T5t^ f^CWC*^ 

S^tf^ I fn'STSifSt^ '®I®t^ '®l‘5i^ 

g^tt^tq 1 '5l«l^ ^ ITS? ffe^ Sfl I 

C^ '^t#r5Rl > 1 S 1 ^ 

i sicwi ^5?e. 

CW^ttCSTSf ifl, V3 fsmspa ^51 wqtwt^c^ 

t£l^ nw ^tWT I 

#5?^ tf«5TCT, f^w^s 

tfj^i^ 5^^ftf|5?i am^i "srfwc^ >if^ 

artFj c^ ^n5?r^ f^’afi 'sirwrt^iw^ ’?fl i cst 

^5(twft2^csra 5?:«fT lii^ ^s('$? srftsTfcw !W’?r<5m*i i swfw, *(^, 

5l4«1WC>i^ ^TSW? >lt%« ’Il'ansi 5f^l5t|5Il C£l^ 

>?t<5ttw?l wi "STflTHI CTf’»rt erfR?! I 

sH^'NTi? «al% f^?|i’t iH|^ '«l^t^ 

fl®! 15W < 31 :^ W5T1 I f%f^ ?r«R 5?w^ «fr5it5m 

s?f?«:5ii? ^«fs? ^T«n#<? 5?tf^mfc^ 5W cwR^rf^ c^ts?^ ^i?*i 

t|9| ;?1 I f^’gJTJTt’l^ '€ ^-SBlfSTT^ WUS? ’W^'SlUC'l 

^RntWjfiTS T?^Ta1 ^•^^T1WW^ f55? 'S ^ »ff^ 

«t5l af5?tf^ f^Tf^ll 

f%1^-> ?'g3 wtcg ? t ’iw srt'^^t^l <i)SR >i*?rti:s??i ^rt>R 
CT '®W?I 

*ft^intfl»ii 



^8 ' 

'« ^SPTf^ y\fk^ ’1%1I- '« ^^l-’jpli I 

^«Ttwc^ tate.>rftt ^ ^f^?i C5%t^ 

'2J5«1i? I 'ib-ffb' 3TtC51 5lt^I*tl5TtlI 

^?F 's#^ t 

^ '®f^t5J ^66»rfr^ 

^5t1^’t*n:^ ■ f^5is*i ^ I C5ftwt>i^t% c^’ttfl^ iTt^i*it5it^ 

i£\^w^ ^C?JT^ •^lf%5 1|c«T^ 1 

'St?! I ^'5t^ i!lk<P^ 

'=rf%?t?! (?f% f^% 5r?p5i I <sm-\^ >ii<it'f’i3- 

5P5C5 ^e^% ^‘Jrl ^ 1 C31^ ^ ^'5T^ 

^?C?I# «l]tf5^ 

'StBtf^^ I 

“^Ift?!#” '5ff%i!C?^ >!fe 5!*sf^ «rt^ sj^VfCS!?! ?I5^rl 

'®rf?^ ^*1 1 “^'5t?i#” 5T!^ o^] ^t^'11 c?! 

^t?«Tt«t^ ^ 'StC^'Srit ^f^^tCf 1 

^(t^sit'sW^ srf^^ ^ €t^ ts'5iTi1^^*t?! 

■<!s«*!t^^ sfCS! ^'SI 1%^ 51^^ ?rf^ ^\ 

in I 'sit^ '5i?f%i!^ nr*tj^ fsfn “*tf%^” ?5in 

cin^rf^c^ii! I CT 

?}^^f%:5[f^ 1 ^ Jjtsjtgj ^t^cTl »tc^'« ^titfi! ^ 

=’^-^f5S cflifi^ i!t^ rft^ 'S 'Q 

fTOt%i 4?^ci I ntt^^fTsT^ ^t^t?ii ifi'^ n^tacnt^ ^?i 

irt^Ht?ttK »|f^ iD^'s fiT^ ^ 

ifl^'^fttit I *ff^^T%5f«| (fif^'St^’^RtTf?! ?Ptk^ 'e 

•sH^'SWs! ^e,>lt5Wtir Wtf^'ei! 1 ^tWtiTl 

SH-T^ ^US T%?!5! I Jl^;^ ®«fi( 5n?5Tt^?t^ ’«rjtt% 

sti'tsf^ f^l^! *fr^ ^rs! iR ^jj ?rr% 
CJt^ <2tf5 I f%^e,?FtC?!?! m:Klt ^?l 



•it 


«F%I^ I <11^ snk^ f%W^*( ^ f^!f^ 1 

( 'Blfet^?! ) ^ ?(f6^ I <nt (2f5?H f|9I ^ I 

W'nC*! '5jf^^^ '2f'?|5I ^51 I 

ifl^FfWSl 5}^;^ ^^C*n5C5Ri^ ^'$ 5K*fJ CT, 

'srfsTSt^ 1|C*W^ srI ntC^ ifl 1 

^n^t^iwi ^%5=H CT, c^’t 

>1^ sr:« I 5l^73JR ^^5^ CT Wv ^ ^ 

^55n mflui (?[, (H^ 

a[C5 1 “*w^” srt^ *i?i 

^'Si:fit*)k*ic<(> 5^5=1 1 nt^ ^f^'5i’j*<i 

^t«ii ^1 5(5T^Twtr^ 

I 'S f%^ 319f f^f^*(t<5l^'5f? 

*ir3i^ '2f^tf%^ I ’i^ 

5(5r?iTwi >i€tsc5rf5S{ =^^1 ^%5=is( I f5C5Tf^5i'|.>i^ 

^16^? I ’It'^f^l^ 

*Tt^ 51^^ 1%f«rat^C5T5^, “I will preserve it with the 
greatest care in luy library, as a monument that marks a grand 
epoch in our literature when Bengali poetry first broke thro’ 
the fetters of rhyme and soared exultingly into the lofty region 
of sublimity which is her genuine province.” 

f%t5 cil?i;*t ^C?H srI I 1 t?ff 3[55lt^ 

n?i ^ fw^T ^T%?i ^6 c?m >1^ 

ib-ttb- ^tr® itr'iio t%5t 

5R?l I tilt m 5lC«tf 51^^ <2J?|5l Slt^ <15=11 =f%21=l, 

>21^=1 ^TTl ^s^Tl JUltrST^ '8lR?t ^#1^ '?T*1=t '^filCiSiSt, 

lilt "Slt^ lilC^^ f% ^ ^ ^ *ftf^m 

ct| 5Tf5p? ^tt& <I5=rl fij’fsi ' 2 i^*lC=ti 1 ^ 

I 



'2ft5I *« *tt*5tC^?[ 

®iti**rf^c!ni I ’it*Ft5i 5i«r5tfl ^ '^tisiiu- 

t?i‘N '« “fta 

<5^1 ^5It'®->1s’?tC^<) ^tc*l CSfB^tBtlf 'Q 

tfTfS ^Ce^si 1 f|t«15l I ^«ftf'1 

JTSTSl 

CT*l5l ^^Tt5t« ^sit^ 

c^T’^tf^^ ^srt^ fi?^:?i 5f^?l i 

*ft^c^ ^fc® C^1 ^rf^’f*fc^p I 

'ii^ fees 5J^^W5( CT f^^*t^i<i 

5^ "St^l ) 

tfic^^ f% >I'5I'®1 ^ f^C?ltl5si1->l^^ (i)^^ 

?5J^1 I t3?1 <2ff5'5l<l 1 • iil-<?»lt«f 

?rtrsrtii#t^^ 'Q f«C5Tt^5ii->i^c^? 

'2|^^tf^'® ^ awtwsil (£^'^ 

<i65rl ^f?c?i5{ I 

'ihr^k i 

I a^tc*r? ’I?* »i^v»CS)? 

«ftf^5=i i?1 1 r^rsjts-^rffl^ »f«i 
'®ff%swsfn3 <2mt5l f**ffV5-5l*ltW 

'« *(^ 1 'Q CTMsrtvf ^ '^Ftc’Tf? 

Bf^r® I ^fs «ig^'tcw?i 5]t«ij^ Sit’S??*! 

^m*f?i '8rt?»jj?^ I ?^s(sri^ ?>f? 

CT 'srKi c^m ^^1, ^t«(Tf^c^ ?c<a'6 *t^a? 

^t5l ?sFsi I CR?;^ ?? i3«rf?p5rt 

’fsrt'Q ^?1 ?5sn I 



51^^51 ini 

,'®rc<? c^t^'s 'Sf^^ sii i ^5t?f ^^t«t*i 'q 
^ I 'Sl'elc^ 'It5t?l 

*itf?^f?i5? #RPT 5?1 1 “'®=5CTrf*(^” :>' 

f^tt^ <2r?Ftft^ ^t5t? 

5Rt5lf^«F 'ai^Tt? I ^ 

fsf^ i£i't *ttf^ I 

a*- ^US 'i\r ^tcl ^^33551 'aq^« 

*(r^^ fwtcfil I “»ff^1” >151111 ^t‘v511 Jitf^^icapcii 

j}«9j«f ^^■ffuf^NS I gt?1 C^t=?'«?Ji’'f <15511 I^Ut 

^>ia^ <)f^lltt 'S’JfJl Wi15!t«ft^C*t^ *(f<l*t1 I >15’11 
'£ir«'5T?l f^^t»f sitf’fsi 1 SPR 3PC51 £i2i^Wl5 51^<I 

>£i5>I5l, sj^t^t^J, 51t^ 

3p5|^f%^ <2l^tC5 1 5}^^SfC^^ 

>15IC?I^ C»f^ ?5Jn “ft^tW5l1” ^t^r I <i)t 'SW? ^1P551 

>il5itii I ib-^i ^5? Jitc>[ ncv ^5^1^ 

5^1 I ^5FC«f*f ^)t?t ^c^trat’^ 5it3il 1 

l?t<1 < 1 ? 511^ WJitftC'®! ^151 V!t51 5}C5ff 

a'l^^t-l '2r^^ ^5i1 f^^ I f^fs? 

51W ^f?C515t ^Jtf?^t<I ^ I "srl^ 

M >(5Tc^ f^'$t^ 5(^ 5<1 1 'srtwt^irs 5t^^ CT 

c^^5i ^5t<i >11 1 

I c^tJi'a 

f$f*1 5lfk^ C5l1^'^5]1 ^f?ll1 >l"^tf% 

^fil^tf^l^51 I "l^^l 51^^51? ^ 5(1 1 

fjiw? 'sr®it’l >!*vt*(t«(51 ®JT1I fw 

I ' 

f^ fa«fl 

C^«( 511 I ^ ^ 


8—1246 B.J. 





?Ffiii:5R 1 *Tt*5t^i ?it^ 

^»i*f^ 5tr5^ 2nft^ srt^^ 

^t3?1 1 <ii^-ti»is >iT»i^ 

^•^l^Q.-5tSlt;:^^ wsit^t? (71 '5lti:<l^*l^ 

'Sff fesj (7!^ I 

“C?C'«I *)1 »ftc>icil *ICi(, ^ 

5rc5(? >lt*(, ’I^SltW 

^1 S(1 C’fl I” 

— ( ^^rsrffsf^ ) 

^it3l I (ii^t^i ^ C5t*rt^, 'Q 5fl5iti:'*F2s 

C'Tf^t? 5f^5=l 1 35n»rs ^%z^ 

STtf^si I 'tt^t?! ^1 1 ff»f^ 

^r?»? fB's ^f^pi.i ?i5j^ ?tf^ 

1 tfll ^^*1 #151? 

SIR fi^ 1 wl%«f:*f ?fs!?i ^51? #Rfc-j 

f^®1? ^‘^n fsii^csi I 
"^r^, f^i5i ?i«#if?F? ^ ?iin ?f?, 

?f^«l1 f«l?C? CSlIil ; 5lC^ ^*11 ^fn, 

Cf\ 5I51^«, ?t:5 f5?1 ^21, 

?rtC5 5’C» 

c^ (R ^'^?i:®, ^^f?, 

5ltf5 «l1cf ?1? sji? ^«if1 
f^'®J-?fl1% ^SSlfi^tl '^fj} ?” 

— ( ?t?t?1 ) 

^1^ 5ftc>l? C»(R SJ^^ I tv^l'fi 

5:t?1 f#f^ Gray’s Inn dl '©l^ 5^RR I dl^^si f#^ 



'5l<mc^ cst’t sitf’t?*!:? 1 

C^t'ift'^ Slfl I (iJ^'8ltCJ('« 

^lf®3p*l 5^51 ^\ I «t^C^?I ’1'^fjivrt?)’t‘i 'SI^ 

C£(^«| ^\, ^^?lt?, 'S '»t?C« ’itl 

C^f?ni^ 5JJI1 f^*lw *lf ;C5=iS( I 

^c<?( 5ii *ttf<nii 

f?? I ilr'is'S ^,?1 CT Tft3i1 

I tfit '®i>2f®itf^® ^<>i°s(5n:5? 

■<i=itf^5isi I %irc»f ^fiic^ 511 f^fii ’ift? 

5tf^^ ^tf’i^l m isj5*i '« ^t^l -ufitBctvri;!?! 

"^iml I *tft<l filfsi^ f^fjl 

:g5tc^ii 

fsfil ^\n t^«TCQ ^tf?C5151 5l1 I ^- 

*rtf^C®I? 5iw f»f51 ellf^C5151 1 C^^^'Q f^51 

^51»fC51 «rtr^C«51 I 5l^’3551 ’src^- 

^t^?i 5T5t^^r« ^\ 5it®t« •^f^^tr?i:®i5i 1 c^T5r€ 

*1tc? 5ltt 1 

^9ri:*f*t >1^3? 5ltt^ ^?1 ^CStC’l 

^5rCTC*f?i -^f^fHc^tsift 511^51 ’if^fs^ fsi# >rr5t^f 

1 ^51»fC5l^ tWc^ 

'Bit^Itf^^ltJI '« sj^jttft^tJl f I fsf^ ^^til f^0t51t’fi1 
*t<i'tt*ia I f^5it5t? 5i§t»r?i '5i<c^ii^ 

JltJlf^ ^9fr5t^ ij? 1 5lt5rt>£(5Ft?l 

^f^*(i c^ft ^r?i^l ’i^cs ’fre 

"srcvrcH '2f^it’r*i^ i 

^fW'6 ^t^51-f*I'»f't’f 51^^51 915(51 ^fl^ffi:«151, 

^1^51^5 ^*9(^5? I ^<l5ft*f- 

^ti«i ?p?il^ 'S 'st^ ^f?c® ^f9ic®i5j I :^ii:^ 

ITtC^ ^'^(’i( fli*p5 ^ts.3lll(^ 1 



'St’SIt^ ^f^;p'| ?rtWl ^’*t51'?( 

f^^tfi I ’It^ 51-g^ii - • 

“^pf^t?! 'SftBi '9 >2<^5iC5p ’Tt’gi? 1” *1WII 

^V^VJ} 51^^51 '«it^*f 

“Queen Seeta ” 'il^'*ftf^ ^T^I 

?FR1 1 f®t^ ^s(J^5ltC^?l 

5ii*i” “caVf^ii £f^f^ isi^ I 'stJft^ R’tc^ 

fsfq “c*1^?tc^”?l '3‘it^ 

'^5511 ^C?5l I ^5?51tfe'«I f.C=ft3 ^1^ 

^5T'S sf^^ww? 'sft? <ii^1^ ifli? 1 <iit 'S)f*f^t^*i'l 

^f5'$ 1 '$^*(1 ^ptc’i'a 

^???tC»JJ f^lf^'S 1 5(^?? '« 

1 51«fJ f^i 

C'f*f1'?ic^tsf, al% 'Hfwl ^ tl^t? ®tf?g?i 

^13 ^c»tr6i«i— 5i5i^#g;l^?ii I «= 

• JiC»? ■>i^’??C5n srtf?f»)<» *ifaJi'sitr« i 

c*rt atf»i ^fasl 3Ft^5H9 *fft« ’Iffts^^csij 'ai^Jim jj'sBit?'!— 

'«ftf®, ’ItC'^l. f4^%(! SitSl 

( ?<f«-3('8n. ?t5. 5»fii ) 

•S af^t I ftmtsi, CT«f C5filt=Iffl 
’i^itfi'Q ^ipittsi JtPjf^w ^fa" 

4(4(4(4(41 

4* 4( * 4t 4( 

* * “(itfti5, «1. fpfsita c^Tufca 

j*Mt«, =®iwta aiffVi I etNw cmaw ; 

( sjffg <«[a3| ijat, ^ fif ^ ijtca ? ) 

^ta ?3 S’? atl fa-a^a i 
aa, c? aaw, atf^t ciaatca- 
csjtf^'Sa ^a a» «ta^-a«ta i“ 

-(»W1t«) 



K'i 

I ^tf?l^tt nfW?’ 
^c-f ^t%sj5? 1 

f^StSTm? 5f?t*f?l ^ 'IWfl ^tw? fs»f^-?5 511^^ 

?Fr?l?11 I 5l^33JR JTl 

C”^^t5I»l s^tsi^ txu^ C51?:^C«1 I t^ius fwtsjt^i^ 

f^?7t>i(9f?i 5j5t*f?i cii^^ "sf^srtgi o’«t^t®5ftfiTi^? cs^ti:® 

^Ttf?l^t#t '2ft^»ftf^^t?l I ^I^^?l-*tt3C^ 

>IW Sf?*! 5!t°s5Itfs^ ^:^-Wtr?CU 

^f®'5 fsf^ ^C<far®?i lilt 'Slt?l^ I 

t<l 5?S( ^^t?l f^5a*t 

«ltti^-^I^>ltC^( ^^51 ?B*1 «ft^1 BfaCS 3p5l»f; ^l^tPfS 

'5f5t^ ^tc'® I f®fs? ^J^^t^-*(tC3J? 

?pf<sc® =11, C^'H^T'S 

^5^1 m \ ^f'm =2rt^ ®Tt^CT<t >rft® 

«ft^t ^t§T<I ^tvft^^tw I >3F0 'a®Tcn >fijl} f^5t?t5T^ 

'« *t%®, ®t^tc^ >5Itwt ^fft®i« JTl I « C’tVaWtSi^ 

f^Ft^’if®? ^«r iii?fin ®# '*Ff?c®_to*( f®ft ^ fgn iift ww , 
“ Michael can never brook anybody’s bullying.” ifl^gj^^ 
isrtt^-^J^JltC?? f|^ ®tl f®f5l 5i^tt 

^^®1 f^ii:®R I lii^ftJi f^t?iT5ic^ ®t5ti:^F 
^ftc® tgfsi^ ^Ce^si, “The Court orders you to plead slowly, 

the Court has ears.” “ But pretty too 

long, my Lord.” f®f^ 3^^ iflt^’1 | ^1 

1 ^>iiws <2rm« 

5ii^«tcsi?i ^f® f’f?tf^''i 1 r®f^ >2ff5i^ (?\^^ '« 

Ji^cspst I nfiifF® ^5i5rtc?? 

^f^*d ^fa^l 1 c*r^ 'Bit^ 

I 511=^ 'Sitn m 511 I ^Wv 

^*(¥ ^?l wir f®f5i ^^^1 *1%^ I apJii: ’tlft? «2tf®»l^il 



5t»t C’T’fl 3|1 c^f’rai f^f^ faf® 

«ig)^ii 'Sf^f^vrc^f? a? ^«*i ^f«c®Tsi I 

^«ta ^-5 a?i fj5c»t^'5tc^ >itft^i->it*Rl 

Jltf^IC^a ^%us '5f^>I?l ^5*1 ^?!1 

at^ 5T«^ 5(C5 I fs^f^isjtwcsi? wgj fsfil ^ 

cg^^fTfsf '35^1 I 

^t?i (ii^ ^Ji***!**^ I ^t5t?i 

^ "sTTHtTfsH” ^CP’fC^tai I ^t5t3 ^f^'STOfq 

^sop's Fabk'stSil 'sp^^*! tala'® I ^’I't’tCSI? f®f^ 

f^tani? ^ias^*ra f^irtanii! 

atfe ^tfla I “^ata ’?‘faf®^1’', “c^a '« 5t®^”, '« 

(ii^ ^^®i ^af^'B® i ^*(” 

f^a^tcia— 'aaaaca i 'af®f?' 5 * ®tai- 
fa»Dia tfiat ®c®tfa^ aa^ta^ aar-^acatca^ waj >5j=?atfa -^tca 'Ttca 
^tai a^atcf I ^®?U at® a^f?!® 

atca att i catatzaa fafa® afaai 'sc^ttj’i-aafa® i 13"^ 

'Si^atfa 'ttatc^ a? ca^ cwa aft t at*5t^T-®ta^'2itf't® 

afaat atW’tcaa faa‘^'« aafj® ^ta ai 1 t*i®ai'fi® t§ta ^tata 
atat« 2 tafta 'af® ■acata af^s 1 a^^aa ^fa 1 f®fa aw ? 5 at?i 
feaa al 1 “c?^?! aa” ^caia ®tal acwa ^acat^ 1 
Ttiaj ataat^ ‘Sicata ^1 atatct ( “ntaata af^at fac® atfaata ai”, 
“aiatfaai ^ftcaa”, “'atipf^f , “^f^®f§iaa” ^afa ) 1 tat ft®1 
'a^^ltcaa <£itg^i, ^l^a aataaai aca?i 'Sfcaia ^aata TOaiii 
“c^a aa” ^af^fa a^i® atca att 1 ca « 2 JT»a ®1 acwa ^tata w\ 
®1^ laatia at^sat aia at i ai'5'« “ca^a aa”(iia <ii^1^ ^i*ia 
^ai ^cia a^fai® 1 <2jaa®s. attca^t^ ^aa afa^ 

a5ata ^tai aaf '« ^fia-aata-fafa^ acaa acata caai ata 1 
ca^t ®aata “ ca^a aa”tija aw 'araa't?® aaa 1 (<i^ firaf f^i fa^ta 



C’tCq '«Wf%sft “C^'^H ^*(”<11? 

«(tC^ I “C5^?l ^*(” ^fvSlI ‘>\US ft?I?>l- 

f 9r *?r?i*lni <iftf^c^ I c£i^ ^tc^m f?ir*f%i -^^t*! i 

c^tsjtcaa ‘ f?»ft5i'5i '« ^tr^?! ^J)t£^*t 

I (11^ ^t^f C5l^ 5)1 ^Icsi'Q mw I 

w:^ 5)^>15C5i? >iTf^t«i^ ai^ i 

5)^^!?^ SitTi 511 ^151 

I ®’JIi:'<r <^T5 f®f^ 'Sftl5) ^R>)1 t 

n^rsf^jitfi 'Q 5af5? wgj f®rii '=fwi ^fsi:®^), ^fc^i 

>rT*v>itr^^ ^5f^?i®i f?s? fw5i ^^c® mf’m I «if® j)t*(( 

»))c*i ^r®® 5^111 \ c''rf'^c«i^ f®fj^ '^*1 '«p1iji®5), 

»ti*i-ar?c»iti«i? Ui'^ 'sittvfl ?if’(c®5) 511 1 ^®^t°x c«**r^’i*i 

355i»t: ^t5tc^ »f^ ^®jtr«t «it'«ni fwr® '5it?i^ ^f?c^5i | 

Nc^65)1, <p g^j ®’{5) f^e=i 1 sit^fSi^ ^»rtri8 '« 

^CgC’T f r'f5{ ^f®^ff5® I 'Bf^cnc^ ^f^-^^5itl| 

Sltlitll ^?lt*tt51 ^%?l5f I 

^'?r5?'Q f®f^i >itf5®i-yrf«f5itii f5it^i:^ 3tf^c®5ii ^^rtc® 

f®f^ *rtf^ I Ji^cu f«if^® 5^c® srfsifjiiF 

^5t5i nt'Qui ^itn I =5W-^;c’< 

> 2 f^ 11 l ^fulsts^fa *rtf% »tt^C®5i 1 

^tn ^*15=11^ ^a?;»t«5) ^^c^5i_^5t'« ®rf^t®^1 f!?! i 

^^C5i ®t5til cf\t «i1»n 5it^ I 

f®^ 'BJtC’pn ^f?lltC5^— 

"^^1^5, OTf»rc®r5 3P151 if)^ ^tt , 

mu ! '®i'®^ 

^*1 1” 

'8it5if5i’^f®? • ^i2r$n 5ivf *1151 ^fum ftw 

f^fClF 5^C® I *lC5)tCTt55f 

C>iW% I 





^8 

f^gi^ 5^c'®s( j^i i ifi^ c<fuss 

fsfsi «I5It>l *lf?[^Jt9t ill, «[^C^t*( ^I’l’iPl 'Site's 

’^ftlJltC*l ^1 <1til silf^C^lil I iJCKi f^fil 5lt5l1 

>21^1^1 ^itf*(?:^ 'sitait^ I <5i<i^lc^^ iil5ifc*i? 

irtWt^ (Legal Adviser) cif5«i 

'$s|t^l fSil ^1W 5i1 I 

f»r?il 4f?ii5iii i 

'Sf'srt’tsicii?) r^fii ^f^ii c^tc^f *f^it»itlt 1 

^f^sic^fl C?il/^C?l^f'S «-(C?f -^tSf^I'i 5^C51il I C^tw? 

f5f^^>l1 ^1 r*f ^^C'f?! > 2 n»ll 6 § 1 Wi:il^ 'Sltll ^*1 ^tJl ^f^t*isi 

ill I 511 cwf*i^i1 si^’j'^ii '5d5i^i^»t3, ^liil, 

C5l1^5l f^3p^ ^f?i:51il I 3p5l*fS fil5J»!? C’fsi I 

f^5l 'Stsit^TC? I Sl^ajffil ^ICil? ^il»Ii{fjp^ 

(?rf^^i ^f?ic« ’'ttfiir^ii ill 1 c^T‘5i-*t^it^ fsfji 

^5t^f»n 5pt5i5ii sitf’tc^isi I «it*ti^ 

^9l*tt51t?I W “Slt^t^t5l5l” SltSl^ lfl^«ltf5l ^f®-iltCfeT? ?5ill 

^^sflic^Tii 1 (iit iit^^’«rtf^ci5 •sr^;^ii?i =1)^ f^^twira wl^iiiii 

1 '«i5i?j ^a^tt^a f^fii ^51 7\^<i( ^finiii iii^ 1 

??rf fsi? '5is(r*F^«i »!C3 CT65t^^rrtr m f»f^i >i"n< ^j?iii i fjfsi 

5l1 tfl^’ltf^ ilW^-?5ilt? m^l 

'21«t*l ilt^-?6ilt^, ilt^^-<l5ilt?l ’«t?1?l 

'Sl^’etia «lf>i^ ’^fsitift? 

tifm silttaaL'^c? ^fs^tfiPfisi 1 

irf*|Vit?l 5a^5l«l il^i^TfilC^ 51^^1 f’t^Tf^Wil I 

i<i^ 7\<^ 511^ >nst'5'^U5 Mil «l\^i:ii<i c»i55[«iti^ 

C^\Mlt'« >[t^5l1 ’tt^t^il 1 ^ri1*t55f ^C*»fJt*lt«fI1^ '« C'»l\?l?t»l- 

?^-*f’'IJl^ '21t’9 51^511^ <(tf^r551 I 3pil»t: '« 



’^‘\m '»rrl^c«fi2i i f5f^«.5it?i 

»lt^1 I cat’f-^*!! 

c*rf^?il ^fk.^, c^tJi'e *ffe* 

#t«t?i fl’?! ST1 1 tii^f^s{ c5*(f?inMc^ c?t?t-?ra‘it?i 

^t<5*i ctPiui *rr^sil f^rrs c’fcsiJ? si^Ji 

“ afflictions in battalion.” 

'sifsit ;itg Trr® f'R fsf^ 

5Tf^^C^ <SiW^^ 5f^1 

1 ’I'?!? f5^ C^Tfatl^ C^t^, '5l1^<t?l 'ajJSp 

^ja^gri '« 

?f5C51st I 'Q 

a^ra ^It^t'5 ^'5 1 cat^ f*tc^ ^\ 

fn?ii nt^cls «=itf’M 1 -ii^ftfit fsfjt «i5§t^ 

’ifeiTSJt I ^5t5t<l f*f'^^a^^| 'Q ’ifts ^«11 ’^^•1 

f$f^ '5f5p 1 M^ =^?5V{ 5icit1csit5^ 

«lT*ltil a^l ^5lWC?I ^t'l'aJN ffl t£)t Ctff^^a l” 

c»t^ 'i 

^'»tf^^ C3?5lf?ni^1 '.b-Si i-isCM ^St 

Bfil^ll C’tcaisi I 5twtt*lt5st C^t^ >1^^ 

35lf^9t*l ^t5t? 515ttr«(^ ^'iiftf^f^ ^n*?! ^r^caisi I 'srl’^tw? c*t^{55« 

to 51"^ ^tat3Ft^ ^«fl?I 

f^f^?l1 'Sltf^caist, ^ '^*1 ^t*l 3R5RS 

c^)fm\ ftc^ *11^^ «c^“i 

I C^^lfacn^il *11^ f^%'>FC*t^ ^ to»l 

; *tC?l ^#RI1 ^1^^, “«’t#t*t 5 '«lt’‘rtf^’ni 

<4|3!rai Jisitf^f’? ffl C^ ?” 


4-1346 B.J. 





^'5» 

“sic^trsit?5l, C<51 

»f^t5 - CStSft? Pf ’?Rf*l f ? ?” 

SRCJltWt^ *t'5f^ ?” 

"sit^rt? *Ji?(*t»tr^ P^ c^tii'8 'sit^rt?! ’^•1 J»i, 

c«r^ cwR ^tfJi «?tofii, «it*rt? c^'Q 

aj*i ^ 1” 

“ To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-m( rrow 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day. 

To tlie last syllable of recorded time ; 

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 

Life ’s but a walking shadow ; a poor player. 

That struts and frets liis hour upon the stage, 

And then is heard no more ; it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,* 

Signifying nothing.” — 

^f5t?l “f2<P ; 

JttI l” 

'£ft«^1 1 ifl't fjfCWlt '5)^'^^ 

fit#?! 

1 CT wgi It^c^ ’^^ps c«ra«i 

4r<4liRw»(, ^51 'BJtfil 1» <2f*«lt^pftff 

^ >£jt^ ^9r^tC5f?i «it% wt^ I 

I f?stsrt^ ^f^pPR, “ffil 

f|C9f 5^1 I C5tJ|t?I 5W[ 



Slttc^q 

1 ” ^l^^vfJl 'S^j? “^tf^ sl^lJ-f^f^ ^til 

5Ra5=^ (SftW ^ 5J1 1 f?l(5ltJ| I f^ts? 

•iWc^ '#t^?t?J f^asrtsjt’ttra iitf’^tt^ i c^pi®i 

'“rWii c^ '»n(c?it«( CTii 'Bitiitg ^isitR '*Rt55tw^ 

^f^sR ?^r5 *Tff^ 1 a5Ji»f: 5}c?r ^fcnf ^t^ln 

»tttc^ ^r?i ^n^ I it5t^ ^ 

C’f'l ^ 1 f^«£f5r3 C^5l1 5 I 

<33iwl, ^«fi?t^tf?^’t*l, 's 5j»^'«f ^c?r?i ^f^i- 

5ir^C^51 »fC^ sitk^? •‘®t^ I 

=®t5tia C5»’?(;itvf^«( ^t^r ^t^T, f ?i^5)t^ ‘•it^^- 

asisi cusfi^ C»f 1 ^ 1 ^ "tw? I 

Nfs? cap ^*f ^ ff^ii 

fsfiR^ ^t^t<i c^i\ro vrtf?®j%5rR 

^ff 'S f^grs ^1 

' 8 Rti:«!ra ?rtii ^i?is^ 1 

f*t^tii f^^’a I 
vtf^ otW’Ti =i 1 5^c«i 

<rt, ^ 's '5(«(:^t5^ c^r^fl m, TOt errf^’F ^fe 

H15t^^5t«l iBf'5<2K*l I ib- 8 o ’I^I^— 

fapt ^«.’nj *(fa^)1 ct 

'6 ^1 1 f*if^^ ^jf^^*i 5i<pc«i^ 

*it* 6 t«f f*W '8 ^tc«iti:^ 'sitf ^ I 

lilt ^-n m'3m ^fm ^ntei ^ 
nfwR'i f^i^r^il 5rrtoi?i 'srti’imHii ^tc»t 

^itfiwm ^ I ^*ft>i«i^*i 





<il^^ ^'fJtf't'5 CT 

>2t^*l 1 <1t*6t^ir*t^1^ '«|^.£|Tf^ 

tfl^*s MiR '£f'«f5J 51^ 'Q 

?i55ri 1 c>i\'®tc’n? <ii^ 

c*rt5 %a^ ^tl^^il c’fsi I lf%c«=i5^ c^ ^=ft 
»lt«(i»1 «P?1 <^t^^ I 

f*ri f? ^t“v211-5ftf?®I-5ltSfSlt? I ^'sRl1#t- 

f5fitf^55 5tC51i» I '«rs®t*lw^ C^S]^ ClftC? 

fs|?l® 3[RI, 5l^^P=('Q 'S >i«i®t^ f§a 

’Jtt? 

^*(1 fR<i^f*( i" 

fS5R 5lf^ 5 TCS(j f^fii >ltf^«TW3iC^ 

^8f51 I 'Sfi^ ^^’Stl'®^ fsfs? 

^n^Tl lilt's ^1^1 '« >Itr5«( 'si^flRlW 

fil^® 1 #t^t? (il^ ’if^atC*!? ^«J1 ^ 5=1C51 f^fs^ 

^R3? 1%C5Sl, — 

“•#*=> « ^cTt^Cel, 

^s?5fr, OTC5, c^t*«n ^<!(i «ftc^ t” 

=ft^i ^>£{f%3? a«tc^ 5jt^«t^d^ 'spst^^^i 

^1*1 ^f??rl SIICW Jiff'S ^f<C515{ i ^t5l? CT*(' f?»1 

^Jig)5lf«(tRl*l, <Sit ^«>llfe'®J1l 

C’fsi I ^t5t^ '5llel\r^^ ’R* "Sl^lt^^l 

srff^t^ ^Sf ys ?5isjtli0j 1 

*ftsi '«i*if?ii?ni I Ms^ 



1 (il'S?!^^ <£ft5I 

^c® 5 ?i cTt’fr I ^t 5 j '« 

»I^C'®'t^ 'SJ^ *1t'«'5lt ■*ft^ I ^I” 

<2tf^^-?j f5iTr><^ 1 

5 ^^ 511 ^ '®li 21 ^® 'Q *t«?[< 2 fvH^ I CT 

caf^^, li}^? *i5tcR?i %?R*i 

C*T^1 ^ I 'SJS^^W CT'tMj, 5}tR^Bll(C2? 

^t5t? (TR51 fl^l, 

<l^W^t‘*f ^1^15 ^=31 C^U'€ 5iT3ft?ft siC*fT C^'^fl I 

aBfsi'S ^f5r5I?l ^fa^l tfl^ ^t^- 

'SfM«> I 5^-§?jt;q ^;:*!t <^t°se11? a<?l5f I 

f^5=i ^9 <51:^151 I 'tt^l'a avf^ 'SJtte^tC^ 

5i5t^f^3 «?tf^?; c’frai’?? I 

»llf^«J5J3IlB ^^51B'5 '‘®t^?l a®t^1 ^^1^1 

^rt'Q, 5 ^ 15 ? l 51 ^:^vrs( l” 

^9f5ltr5C«T I ^^>ltfej 

a«i5i I 

^'®5i f^’»rr?i 

at=i Rft I f*i«tFtr!i?i '€ 'sitw°s?ic 5{3 'sq^t^ 

I 'Sl'Stt^ C'^6‘st^i:?fin ^tc^? *lf^*t'R CT ^'$1? 

c»ft5#ra 5ic^ 5ic^ f^nrtrfs? i 

f^1 %t?i cw«f1 5^qrrf|5i i a?lw c'st^ 

<<m. ac^? 'sita^qi c*pq i ^- 

atsq 5it^ I f^«ni ^rtifB^n ^tam ^fii^i 'atm '^pfl^ttfa— 


“^tata faia ^fa f% ?pa af^, ^n, 
^iK at^t I 







***•••• 

a (2f5l^ SJSJ 5?5l t CIW^ ?ltf® ? 

artf’tf^ c? ^ ?” 

— ( ) 


“(71 (7rc*f ^ ^n-'BiRq 

gCT5( 'Sft^fC? 

> 2 f 5 tr« ; CWC*f C5fni 

JT^St^ <ff»f;5rt^'5, ^C?J? JiW? 

; (.^ (7fl"t C^f^f 

c»tic«5i i” 

«> =ii> # « 

« « « « • - * 

“CT (?Ti:*f ^5(51 51*1, ^5?^ I’’ 

— ( ) 

c*r*(t^c*?t«( <ii^ *i*(i f*nil «?t^ 

1 ^ -sRtJJi f%1^ *rt5wi5ii:3i (TfWu (TiW^i 

^C^5( 1 

»f1»5t^J-ffl->r5®-W5( '®P?'-5 '« 1 SJ^PIJR 

(7n%«t^ *i5twr^? ?rt? nt*? «(t? »i*ivsf c*rH^t^ 

«if5*rt5i I Ri'i^cq fjicsR^ 

f*rai *1?^ ’ps ’i*itn5( I 

f5R5l^ '»r«ft'5tc*nj «(c^Tft-^i «(f5 ftsi'str^ 

'£i^’ »i*)tf*(i:« c*F|5i'e «f^t? 'Bjff ^ ina i 

*11^? nw ^’ti*fti 



>Rtf*ff^f^ 

“ ^rt^'S ’if^^-^, 5f»ir ?ffw ^ 

! fsk ! Cf) Jisjtf^cei 

( 1FS(^? c^tc^l fifts 31^C? CTSlf® 
f^irt^i ) *iw 5i5tto^ 
w^ 1^}^^ 1 

«f>ll^fil, af»mft«1 5I5t5if^ 

?t9Rt?11^*1 ^tcsi, Wl?m i” 





( o ' 

ms? I Cft^- 

?i??t^c^i? c^ m '£r®it«fi =^to ’tif^, '$t3?i 

5?ft I CTt®^ 5I5l?Ft^T f^5t? ^1 s5^35«fCT? <3*^*1 

<2f?lt’T C^ff’^C^I ^?t<l f^%t?*1 ^?1 I 

^'«fl <il^ (71, “C5I^5Rtff-^CS<”^ 

I 3'i|si '5lf^3i1^ 5tHf ?f5^ 

I 5l5t^t^I-?16^'t^ 1 

-StPI cH^?ltf^¥ I '^1»6t^J ^f^?tC‘t^ 

"STot^ 5?1 I 

^t« CT, ^1^<I ^i]C^' 

I ’1?5t355CSi ^t^fill — 

51»C«1 I C*t^a1W 

^«CJ 5^C5I5J I fsfs^ 

I 'Sltwcn (5^ 

OT^^Tsi f^t*tt< =5!^ 515R? >rr?-n^tr<^! 

'SICSlT^’lW^ sic^tcsitfe^ ’?tt I (U^ ^tftil ctWi? 

c*rri^ ^515 fj^^ kk^ I 

^t^’«ttf^ <2J»i(5l H5S^1, «T^«!— (7[5J5{ 

»?< '«(’ns(t?l*l ^J%!? 5fe5lt5t5[I, ^t^d <ICT? 



<a« 

c^’^ii 5ii I ^sv^ 5nj®i '« 

•Srt*®! SfC?, ®tWI I 

'csi’^t*r-’!|«f Tti^rvQ -anit’f wl 

^ ^'5t^ ^ 511^ I (7R5( 

f^c^Tt^sjlc^ 

C’T^^n srHI >31^ 'S'H 'S ^?)tc^si, 

'8^5tc5^ 'q (7it**fr^Ri ^tf^ 

'9t«ft?j CtR I ?C^? 'SR'5T?['n 'SIC^'iFl 'Stf'S fsf^ 

^fs(^ 5T*FT ?tf^^tCI5? 1 i£l^^ fuC3i? 

CT Corn's ^»v»f ?Ff^?l 

I *fc^? -sftg^T 'Q 'sisi^tc?? wi->£ic^tr’t? ww •ytrii 

TTR ^c^*n 
5?C5 ;— • 

“ >;!■ «= C®1^5, 

^thcsi 5i?[t?Tc^ S<t^ 

'siftRJi c®®:— 

f^^si ^ni ^f%,— 

C*tt^tftf ^«!t1 >IC2? I” — ( >1^ ) 

I f^’g "sjJlIsfR*! ’T^I^ 

(iJ?p^vQ 3?5^ 1 >aTt^ CSlC^tf^, 'Sf(2n^ 

^fV?l1 »ltf5®I-’Tt*l^t^ 3[5SJ*t; ^5]31<J ^C® 'il’Is 

ncsfi^ ^t^i” cw'.*f? ^fi5j'?B«?tc^ '« 

f»re«R 1 'il't '2{ft<Q 

^tRl” ®t55l 5»t^ 1 '©Mil 

^5tc® C^«t1 1 ‘‘CT’?I5lM^<f 

6—1346 B.J, 



'88 




c^'Q 5f?3r^^ 'srtw’«n?fi?:’t 

ftfa^ ^«), <2t^t^ 

HVftl^It’tl Hin f^r^tC^Sl *1131 1 (£1^ ^tnj *l^^W? 5f?13l- 

f63R:*l W5l 5l*ll^«t!:^ I ts^ 

(Hl^f*t^ >i’^< f6f3i^ 1 

<ij^ ^tr^ir ^t*lt^ ’^<•*11^ SIC?*?, >£fwt^«.5l51 

'Sjtfars C^^tCTa f^f^ f®5§1>l1 : — 

“f^^, f^C^, <i]C^ f *(5=1 "Tt?®! I 

C?FT<!f1 W!=I*lt«*f f C^WI '5151^1? ’’ife ? 

c^*«n 

■ *t*lS|, •^f^, "Sit? (.51?C51«1 ?”— ( «t«l*1 *1<) 

'5rr?t?i 'sraiii ^1?‘v^t? 

c’«rwt^ '51^1 f5c^ ^r^‘.— 

1^f*f, c^t*i. ’itc’i c*it=a >21 

^ c^ ^rt^*i ? tfi ^t=5sii 

c^n cst’it's wtc*i ?” 

# * * 
#«=«■«■ 

* # # 

'«ltf^ ’^‘sf’lf^, C*(t3 ?lf^ CT 

*1*1 Srl >^51^1 ? — ( f^flTI 5l?f ) 

*«’sC5i? ^r??itrf*i, 

* =;:= # ‘'^<^1 !i»^ 5^11 ^«i|i ! 

^f?r5 *ff<T «lt?l% 

ff '^t1%m ^5, 

5F^?” 

‘ilt ^CSll JlRsrl ^«seTO?i 



I si^'p 5i^t:n’«pi '£ff ^ *tt'«^ >itJi ’('«fs( 

“^51^ P»fSJ^ C^5, C^5 ^ ; 

'Sft^ vft5^c5^?i cfir®^’^ 

■*i»rtf^f^ 1 c^i 5^:^, 

c^tsji Tt? »tr?i 5150 I 
f^'?R1^ '«(^C5?l1 

C5I 

C5¥51C^ ^81^^ (X^ f^I!^ >0 ^tfw 

C’JFU ^5^ ?” — ( 5jlf ) 

5lf^[5f| i£l^ I TtC^ l£l^ 

'5l“s*f1^ %'555fe.?ptat I 

^nvKcsi ^C«itt*t^«t51 

^ 51CSI 5^ 1 JTtfl Sit'S 

^’Jf'5, STfSTrft^ <il^t lttsi'®1 *lf?5t? spf^^l il^'S lE^t'SCf I 

^'51 ''^ifsiC'SCF, 


“f^ ^fs? ”^4 ^ ^tsito, 

!Ht^^'5^, i” — ( 5'J< >!< ) 

C®I^ '3t'5l 

"srtf^ C'5t5)t?1 >i*gc’«t 
(ijtjff^ 1 'Srfsit? 'St^ll, '®Sl ; 

sttsrr?! CVf? ^t'S I” — ( 5'5< ) 

^5l ®ft^1 C3FtC*f 

# # “a ^(^(^-'srtetf^ 

1 i5rt'f^^5it^^;j ntf^ 1 

^ '®f5f ^9%5C51 l" — ( ’I’f ) 



vSiS ^51^ 

^115^ wus 5^^?! I <ii^<ilCT 

'S|^^?{*t1 1 ^5?5f C’ft«ft'« f^c*f^ 

'srt^rt?^ c'/i^ I '8r^i5t<i«ri 

srt^^j I 

5l^s{ (ii^'«rtfjl I 5|?t^f^?l1 C^'« 

^^\^\ f*f^ ^tus ^<^1 ^f^l '®t?ta siCSfl '8 '®ltc?t’1 

^C?5? I tut >21^^ 

f»r?tc^^ I r*?? CT, ^va ^ ^n^c*w? mm ’?f^ ^f?c'® 

OT^^r*! fsi#t?*i sipitf^m i ^^i, 

f c^?, ^tfic^n 2f^f® t£i^ I ^1 

(71 5lt5(1 ^f'f® ®t^ S(C5, C«T^®tr»rC’tS 5f?C3I<l 

^1^511 I jj^tc’i’Fl ^ra^KTiftr - 

^5? ;— ‘li) f^^rg, (7f^ 

C'TC^Sf, ’^^Ftf?! 'Sl'^si^t I 

^TQ*1?t3FCq C^^ftC^, 

(7i<2ri 1 c®i5irsi -2f>ifc't. 

t£l^ (71 -2f5'« 5f'(S iawt»^t*f^, 

^Z^ ; Wtrj( 

5Mt^® (71^^, »(f%C® »pFf<t^ 

'5I«^^-(7TtC« - !’ ” — ( ’j'jf ) 

^4^ ^Z*\ 'Q I f5SJt5C51« 

f®C5lt^*I1-’?f§-’^<Jl1, '.‘1^^ ^«.>l^5(?f) bT®J<3% ^<^1 I 

CT C^til'8 '»l*N*r ^ 1 i® ^9P5ltfe®J 

'pisrt^st I— 

sictc^c^r (^(IT^® 51? 

^r? ^tc?lt^t? ^<«(1 ; 

C^m C*f?^®T^1 ; 'Sltf f®, 

*ft« ;” — ( Juf ) 



C«t^ 5 l< l m^C^T, ■Si’l’?^ (?fW! 

'Q C^ C^t:^ '^W’SF'ircsni ‘'C5r«l5rt^-^*f 


( ^ ) 

c^ ^rtc^jj?! 5i*fr «rt^ ^rf^, 

cvrt*r?j »ftii, ■^rrcfii 

«t 5 t^ 1 ^Um ^ 1 ^? 5 tc«ft CT 

^ I’T ^ ^ s?1. OT*f^t^-*tta!t^c^r8 

«!rtc5F, (7f^ iii^*rt3i “si^rt^t^i” ^itcsi 'sif^^^s 
*ttr?i I 5i5t^tni? siK\^ ?i>j|5*t 5tk— 

«2fc«i^ ^U >sic'$j^ ^c-yf? ^1 5?1 «ftf^ 5%^ 

^■\ I '$ra»nT \ ^ f^i^- 

■<} siJTt^ 5l1, f^^fs '« «itfi?:^ 

I ^r 5 ^*t 5 !s CTr^tsj “?(t 5 it^% ?^ss?K 

C»rW 5 [ 515 ?^ Wtf^ >iwit ( ^Jt>l 

) '®rr«f?i ^t%r 5 *tt(:<ist— ? 5 sii ^tc^ 

^i%f^c*n:^ i?55ii ^ j?i i c^ ^«. 

m c^rcH? ^%vs ^fs cf\t c^»fc^ ^«niBftin ^ 

^rf^I I ^f^»rtcyra '« ^U[ ^tf^VftC’Rf 

f^^*l ♦fit I ^WTl*! ?l5t^t?'®c^ 5?15? ^ CTSI 

'S f^sitK®!? 9rt? 'st^'N ^?ic®?t— ^it^i ^*121^1 sita I 

######• 
• « « «: * « • 
j|^ « )» «E «t • 

Sf?l Cf^ *l5t'2msc?lij 51C«(I 

C9ttf , f%i3 -^t% w^tt! ^ W3«<tilt^ 

*(f%» 's »ftf% ^tocf, *f^ *t^ '2ft#tJ^ *r5t^ 'Bi^f: 



fflb- 

5l^5^C5l? “C5l^J^tW-^S(” f% ^1 '5(tSl?1 

I >2^*1 I 

^ ^f5t?I 'Src^'f 

ftTT? ^?ti =ii I Tfc^j” CT^mcvf^ c»Mj, fnr? 

vQ fi^ I CT^J^tcw? 

■?rt^ 's sT^*! 'sicn^tf^ fs<'!a« i 

^ : “ I do not like your Earn and his rabble.” <il^ 

f^?I1 C^Rc'® C’lC^ CT f5?IT?5l ?t5l, eiw 'e ^®tt^ 

^*1^ , ®t5lc^- r*lC?(t*lt^T 

^ I C'HT’k ?^c® ntc?, 

f®f^ fwc® ^]t I s^ <fjs(t51 55*1— t^5T®1 

-« f^^f® 51C*b *lf?|5ltt*l *1t^^1 1 C’frac^, 

5f?3i-’?fl? sn^tl^WT ^ '«wf'5i®t?l ^t^l” I 

a5(t^ Jltf^Tf’tt't? 5f%ai-5lt5tlII (il^l 

^ ^f®® '« ^f®f® ^'6^1 51^^t^?1 ^T^*! 

^ ®c^ 'sitJi^l cf}^ ’l^jtrq ’Sff%f5® c^T?fT ^z^ ^ i 

<2[r^ ^fpintfl mx ^e. ^'«^1 ac^si i 'a?tsj?1 

c^f5tl® *tr^ 51«1-^<S11, '« ^*rsitTI 

f^*rf*1®t5 1 ?t^*t, ^fape,. 

C«1^5 >£t^5lt^— C®r^^, 515'? 'Q f^C»f’T? 5?5H®ti:?1 <2f5Ftf%® 

I fkm ^t5i?i otR '2re®pf w.^ 

’ll:?? ’ic’R ^"*1^ Rqji-iSfR nR^itc^ 1 

^»tr^ %t5 cvf^l “CT'«fsrk-^«( 

’r^‘r I <rfitii*i-'si^5!^ 

t%R® ^ ^ 5tc® I ^t*rt^i:*i «it*ral c»rRi;® *lt^, 

^®1 a*rfi 

^51 I tfl^ ^tC^I'5 ’It’f^?*! 35^1® 3tl®1-^'%t? C’t^«l— CT^TVf- 

^z^ ^<5i1 ^z^sj i (TOtPf? ^ flir?- 

¥^Vz^ ^ <£tt*rt5r Rnt^|5i, ’i"T<Rf®^iRC’1 ^rfH® 



m 

Tt^l” c*ilf^'*? 5|J?t^t^J 
m 5(t^ I 5f^iii-?i^ f^c?m*i c»r^i 

c*hc^(, ^’*Pi*i catis'$'?i I 

>21^511 3pl^f‘Q‘t5I5lf^'5l— ^5t?l CHt^ I 

'£f5?t«1t<l 5r?lC3t C^5??i'®1, «il^3 

5ifsc=i*f ^fm 1 ^'?ftii 

«^t?i Bfais c\ f® (ii^'s 

I '2fi5rt^T-^ts^r5i ^if®? 

3^^’lf«^?SC’1 cwf’ic® 

CVflX I ®lft 'i1®1 515^1 5llft 

“CT 5tft ^ifs 'sitf^ 

• C^^ f®fiR 

'Slta t% «ltf5| ( 2^5!■tC^f 

CT^lf®, >?f®. ) atc^'^tcil !” 

— 

^5Tgi-f»(f^r?i ^fe® 5^® I 

c’lt c^l5j«i®i, ^{tt5i®i c^t'«it^ : ®t^tc^ '5i«r’f^^i 

nf®f^<il5 ^t®?)1 SI1 ; ^ft^^f*f'-''1? 5I11I 

^51^I^C® f®f5l ^f?1C®CI^^ — 

“f^ ! ^1^®-“^? ^tf® 

SI*!! ^TOC*f, 

^t<I C3?5{ 5lt«fJ C^ C?tCSf ®t?I ?tf® ! 

'sitfsi, 5^-^^ ; 

^tfW f ; 

CVff^R CSJtC? f 

— ( ) 





^ ^rtwH" fefe^ 

I *l^*R ^?F*l »rtf%?IC>l? ’TW %?1>I?J >if«c^H 

^^1 ^*3^ I 

^5-^ I ^t?l *JC«(T 'S f ^Sf- 

^!^t?( ®C?1 *ff^'$1 C*ff*t 'S’fs? 5f?3[-f5aC*t '®Pit*{t?l*l 

’if?R:?i «jt5i?ii i%r>ir5 's 'sitJ?f^« I 

I (?l^tc*f? ^ 

1 

“^1^ =11 «f * • 

051 = 11 ^ 1 f'^ ! 

^^1 =f f^ =^sif*«fC^ ?tf'*|511 *ft?9ft 1 
=ltf<l^ =ltf5 

n*!!? !” — ( W ) 

5|?t^tC^JtfB« ^t^-C>iW^I '« *Tt^ 1 

CT=l =1 = 151 ^ 1 ^ 1 , ' 2 |%l 1 

^^*1 1 ^t^j=itf1^cn^ <21^ 

I ’5It^^ Wtc^ M:( *(f^? 'Blt?1*(=l1 I 

C5i’?i=itvf f^f f%5^i •nf^? 5i^tt< 

«2rt<=ii ^t=irti®ci=i, 

>itrsf c^n, ^^1 »rtw, 

f nt*lf^ J :C5t^ il*«i Cil f^^lW. ! 

^c«w m ! 

CT *ivf1, ^f"®, C^tsitf?! 'S|tf«t'$, 

#t^=1 ^5151? 'et '5^?tCeF I 

c*r«f, *»1, c^=i =;t ’mK ^5tc? t 



Ji^tR a-i 

'srt? i 

c®tsji f^. af^rvrc^, c^ «rt? f 

— ( *1^5? ) 

'Sft^i “^*r I 1%f^ 

<8j^9i^^fls^V 'sitanigi^l I *n»ftJ5T 

’Tt^’a 1%^ <ii^ I '£it Tf^a T?p®tai’ra 

atai ^«,>rtfa« a*faai Raichs? i •st 'sit^tl^ ^Uaia ai:sfi 5t=^c«t^ <iias 

a>c*t af^'s i --sf^ta f^tc*t ^atc*ta'« 

^aa fa’tf^'5 5a i ^i^’fcaa taata-tsf^a-^ti^i ^t5ta ^*i ^^rtcap^t 
ntW-ntf^a^t^rcaa 'spgca f&a^ca afaai f^atri :— 

“0^11 5156fa, ^tf^ 

^tata, r^Ffaai aca ats h^icac-f \ 

^1%'Q f’^Ma *icw cf) aa ata®i, 

«c ^i= # '» 

* «= ^i= 

a^f5'« atcac? caTa, s£i at^^a 

faat®i atai, ®t^ c^t atfesi 
cii'sfaca ! fra ate® atatca 
f’i®tat®1, ifm ®ta atr«f j— 

^ta f% aifaa, afa ? ai (y\) ®tca— 
fitft^ta ciif f®a*l c®tal aa1 aFtcf i” 

~( aaaaf ) 

a^^^acaa cafa^ fpta, fap^ ft®i aafa a1^f^ 'a^^aia^ 
f6l^® a^atc^a i atataia fl®1ia^^ a^m»aa ^a1 a^lcf i 
afaaafi ft®1 ^fa^sl, tsail, afa^®ta ^f®#, a^'saal, ’Fat%i1 ‘sai 
fa^-ffi5iat?tcaa '5ftaf'->?a>ni atft i ^tata eto f®f®^l^ a^’Wl 
atta^a i atfe^^ ai^aa fl®tcaa’Ua^ ^ m a^ 
ifcaa att i fa’^atfta aat®a 


e— 1216BJ. 



8^ 




I 5:c«f'« "awtrtw ?1^i:®t?i «f« 

^r?R 5it^— "si^? *ff^5tPT?i 'srf^'N 

5lt3I I ^tlrs ^'51-Ff?ca *it*l1^ 3Flfe *11^51 #t^t?I 

I” 

^?|1 5FJ^, 'Q ^C5lt^*l OTf»IC« 

ts^yp^'^c'Ta '®rt*ft'a-’?^^1 1 *tt^, ^?p*i 'S ?ict? 

^«>>r<fii*t I *it3 5i®, ft? 'Q 

sf^ca I *1^ ?1si5£®? 

??dt? f«i?i 

“5f?a1 *ft^^ C?t? ; 

C^ ?f^tf|5l1 ’tc^ c^tc?, 

f?^?t ! nt?t*l f??1 ’tf^l f?s<t«1 
f5?1 C'St? ! C?1? ?£? ?tf?f1 

R?1 c^tc?l, ! 

C? Tf? 'Sjtfj). 

"^*1 c^ ’?£? ^5ilni 
li? ?R ?” 

— ( ) 

ft^t? Sfl W«t1 i£it 

^t^t? ^fe? I “c??5tlvf?? ft^i- 

CVfftr?^ C*r%« : — 

#1wst 1 ^C? 

fl?C? ! 5?^ C5ft, >rft£? ft^l, 

(Tpc? f c? mi >ic? ^€,>1? ” 



S'*) 

m^ *11}, ^’^*1 

^?j*rr^ *if5« «T^?i I 

^ >R gfsi^t*! ^C’< 

C*R, »Pl 

5}^ f*<*ftTt^-'^tf^ ! ^ ^ 

*1#5 ^«t*l ^f*f 

5?*t^, 51^'tl CT*lf^ 

f^*ft2i ?5rr«=i-^ I <p^ CT '5rt*r£? 
c*rt£<f, 

^*n, ^t£?i ? ^1 c^*ic5( f 

— ( 5^?f ) 

^c'«( tii^l ^t^t 

f'tutct*} I ?t^'2tt^t*f f«f*( '^t'$?1 *}1 I 

#t5t^ t£l^*lt3i ^’Sf*ftf^ 1 ^-5f^C35^ srT^t 'Q C«(^^ 

f^£»t^ *i*fj fw^— ^®i- 

>i?*it?i ^5t?i *i'^*f c*rtf^^ f&3i, '®rtfw 

^it 1 *Jtis c*f'«n *it^ i '2f«f*i^t? 

^gffs??:®^ '5lf^C^?F-^«.5lC^? *1?I ^C*tt^-'=ft*l£*^, 

*1? I C*twt^ "SlsC*} 5f^£3i? *lt5lw 

m cs}^5rt*r ^ <£f%ft? 

f^f*} 'siftii ^jf^rs 5ni*its} '®rfc'>F^ 

c*i W*l*l *1*1, ! 

=5£'«r?[ <2rfi^, ’if^, CTi ^*n 

'5ltf^ I C^^1 f^*}t^1 I” 

— ( *1*1*1 ) 



88 


C^ C^ ? C^SIC^ 

'« ?r^?f '5|5i^, ^f^r® sii ’ttf? I” 

— ( ) 

“^«fi ’t© tf*rfJiw ! 

#I?1 '®ltf^ CTSI'fef 'iC?i 

'«n^«i, *rf^ 

^«JC5l I" — ( ) 

^«jT5ttt 1^5=? ?t5it?c*i 1 

^P#?l 5p^«f I '5I“N»t ; ^151 

'« I 

^ ^t? 5r?t^5 '5(tC5^t85l1? 

I ’ >i^<2f«ifs» -Sff® 

^WW? ^ 'Sftf ^ I ?C^t?lt«? 

vQ I %% fsrf^ m 

^ 5RPF f5^1%si 5)a^^ 

c^srt^ c*ft^^g f^«f '8i^^5s <1%^ I 

t£l^ ^’SJ <fl^ W*l '*(tf%l|tClJi I 

^?J >2fs2fcsi '5PI«^ 

“^*f^ fvnil 

*ft^ \” — ( ) 



m ^ cm?i i 

^t%C15 *1tf5C»1»< C*I 'tl^t? 'slNl'^'© i£l^ '®{C*I^ 

o®t’t I ^i?s?i '®f^t^-^^ vrtfi ^[f%r5 

*ttf^1 c^t^ i£i^*s 1 

'tl5t?i fBii-<^^*ltfii^ >wtc5^ 1 7\x7\\rMm^ 

cJic^ cgj^ •^caj 1 

-ass 5i5'Mf%' ft?t^l t%?itt^ I ^t^*t 'srfi’sjsii 

“«'««' c^ ^t?i 

ci) (il ! 

^«I1 'sitC’T 

^£JC^ jfsill ^tt^, 

5it^*f c? <ii 

C^sifs 5^, c^f’f, 

^tfsj 

<% '' 

‘il<J *fC? !” 

— ( <£i'jrji >1^ ) 


*11^ sir.R? c'«f»f 

1 "Sltsiill ^ i£l^^ 'Sf^JlFtf! M'^ 

5(1 I ^ '8 5}J^f^^- 

*(t?rl <2(^f^ i C^5'2}^*l, C*rr^^< SHC^?^ 

^ I iii’«rt:5( fsfii 'Stt'ff^ra ^tf^l I 

*spm 'srf^^mn ^ 3 i 'srtn^^ cs^’i?it^(*t ^*1^55*^ 

I C^r^ '5[t5'5 


“f^ Slt^l 'Slttw *1^t^ 

«£|15'5S ! 5l '«’K Bf5Tfr®1*tt^ ! 





5rrcaF cst^rfc?, 

? 5t^, Ito c®M^ '^i, 
iTst^ V c^H'®c*i, c*n, '^f^, 

c^ *rM?f^ f%c=?cw !*' 

— ( «(«i{q 5J?f ) 

f%f^ ^%5Pf^ c*rfV^ 

“ct »r^t^ 'sjtfw , fm? 

f<s^ws^, ft?f 5i-5rt«( lii *t?c=( 

>J*f1 ! 

c^ ^?( 5ito f 

—{ .ff«!|5l Jl-Jf ) 

■2|t‘ttf*f^ 'Sispipf- 

“C5 f^f^, <il ; 

nc?il Wf’*f 

5'^ 1 f^1 ’SS'^l— 

C^ ^5fe.fn®1, t£l ? 

51 ! ftc^s-c^*lf^ ! 

C^XJ{ ^It*! f55W ?” 

-r-( «t«f5l >!< ) 

tec's? ^ ^^1 3P?»IS fit?^ 5^?1 *1%l1Cf, 'St^ 
^ *1tM^C^ ^5t? ?t??t? *t1%« 5^?1 

*l1^C^5f^ 1 '=It? C?'t5l'« ftl?? ^*1? ^t5t? 'BIt'ft sn I 

1 (f) 

^ 5tC5 'Sft*! *1*1 C'5t*l1 

?t?*N?t? 1 


— ( «t^ >^lf ) 



“«t # # '5ltC9t ^iw.^— 

— ( >£t«m ) 

•srt^ C’tel I C*lt^^’tl? f^*JTf, 

^t*I?l1 C»»f^C'$ ♦It^, h? ^ 1 

^3i}5M3 ^^*1 ^f^CPlJT ^] 1 

S?^5?t«P iMTltlf, ^51^ -sif^ 

^^^1 f^^tre, C5RC3 f^^e,^t«1 

I 5if^e. >1’^?:^ f3»3fi- 

*11% tf»fR 'at^? 

“# # «! 'S'f , 

<iic^ ’i^i 

C®w? ! iS\ Jltm, 1)%^ 

^ 'srtf^, *rt^t5»?i ? 1%^ *itf^ 

«lt5Bl 'S^, c? ^^m ; 

^ f%'| 'srTtf i£l Jirsi ^6 I” 

— ( Jf^) 

7f^ 7^^^ (ii^«rti:^ 

^ «f^ft*v5mi ^fPw la^ 

I *21^ I 





8V 

’srt^ ^*Jf^ ; ?*t^^car 

“♦ * * ?«t?r?p ^t^— 

<ii f^si w\n ntf^ a '^f^rs I” 

— ( ) 

^*ir^ c*ff’*t£^ ’tt^^l <)t^*i 


on e1>SR*t, « « *. 

>» tf) R c^tc^ ? 

4*! ^ «= * C^1l? 

«!«:«= * 

?lf*'P£'^ 'Sltf^ ? ^ 

^f?ia5l c^t?i, ^f^l, 
cwtc^ \—^Vs^ C^t^ 
ific^ ; «= # * 

C5t^ C^*t 

— ( >1^51 ) 

^mz^ \ 

?rsfWW ’5®??15Jt?l '2ff^fl's>Tl 51^1^ '2t^lt’t5R I 

t£l^ «l“s£*f '5l^^t?l*tl ^fm ?TO? 5f^£3i<l 

I ^f^^tff , ?t^*l WW I 

3itf% '5i’^Wt»fsi n^ !P^ I 

c*tt£^ '5[ft?i, ^'*R'Q ^*it5i '^^51'e 

’}f?511 I t£l^ ^CT5?I >ll5f W*t?;£»l? 



'S «£r^«if?i f5'»tsi?i c»rf<Ril 

^1^ »ftc< W'Qmm*? I 

1 ?CTPt?tcw?i ?*(c^caRi 

*ftf^ ^ 'tl’ff VZ^ ^%v\ 1 tt5t? wgi fi??*1?t*( 

jpgttjnr ^t? wni »r%i*rwii i *iii '« 

W«15(IW 'Sl1^?^1*r «lts «lf53P5| 

^1 1 cnl?Fi^ f«^?i f«f?i ?i'>ft?ti«r?i f&? 

I w «itWs’ic*r3 ■ffs' tf^ 5»1. 

^ fB«t^ '5f^>I?l 

“fssi ^Hl, r.5|?[iit*f, 

^Ifs( C«t*lt^ I— 

HtSfl'StiJ, *1^, Ci■\^]\ 

5I?1^Jt3il t” # * «= 

* ^ # «t 

“ffst ^t*ri, 

^tfV, c’ff'i^l cst^iti?, 
iCTtat^W 
\ ^9(1 ^t»n ! 

C5f? C^t^ll C^C5 ^fw Cfl ! 

f 

_( ^iijq ) 

^4*11 'Sjvj^vf I 

f^r?? '«if^ ^^pr5*i "f?*! ^f?Rrli^*^ i ^^*i- 





(?!*^ ’^if ^'5 

I 

'%T5t?l fpf^ I 

CR^jrTw? sitsjt^tc?^ I ^t'vt?tw ?t^*i 

vQ CT^tW? sfiic^ 5n:*ll ♦lt<'*FT C’5f’f1 ’Tl^ >r5I, f^’g 

^ ^ c*r«fi c*rtc^- 5 sc^ f 35 *ii*i ^ 

«(>I-fSft^*l I CT’SfJltW 'Sl5l1lVft?)1tS( 

»rl! 's «c5rt*r#i^^ 

«(t 3 l?( srr^l i fsf^ *( 1 ^^ 

f«s5t5H 

“* • * 


f'snit^w ?” 


- {< 2 t'«r*i ) 

1 CJPTC^ "<3 ^l?it, 5 rt? 


“# «t ^ c^rtca ! c’lc® 

ifl^ 5ltC^ «rWC?I, Vf»ftJRl'5IW 

^fsi ; '^\^ ^f? ; 

^6t^ tfi ^fs( r 

— ( '.n >!<) 

5f?C15 WTI ^1 C®1*f*Il3'8 mt I 

f5??tfi 'Q ♦ff?i5ii ^1 jji^i? 'snwt^ 

5 t>srf^*f vx:^ 


c^ 

«rtf«f, *ii, 'srwni r 

f% f t 3 l (71 Ht^l, ^ ^ 5 lt'« f 



mi^ fire®, 'Bitfsi, ’ll, 

? f^' (ii^««(i 

sH^tsi^ *r^«r?ff 51^ ? ^'iri ws 

’it^ ? ^tr>ic^ f^«4 ! 'sitw’^ Jitwra 

’itt^ sit®;, !itf*i’i ?rt^^ I” 

» « «! 

“«lt^;i ’ifi’re?, Cfff^, ’It'S %? I 
^?rr^ 'sitf’i^i 'Birf’i ’f^c’i 

- ( n^si ’I’f ) 

C’l^’ll'f *ftf^ % 

I f®fJl ^5s*rt«Ttll ^e«i:i I 

®t5t^ ^ r^i’srt’i c’l 5ii®tii 5i^^3«iesni 

’Ffse^ t£i3*s ?'’r-t’f35 1 f®f5i 

“♦ftl^tff f*tf-'5its5i, c*r5 '»rt®8l ^fsi I 

c^ vrtc>i, cwf3, ?” 

— ( <1sp’l ’I’f ) 

^l5t<l 5f?C3 n?lt^^ ’Tt?! %511 

f®f^ lii^f^^ ?rr3 1^*111 1 

^^31 fsfJl t£13't<Sff6e® ^ ^5R1 ^toftc^isi ; 

«iifi’itf *\w^% filfd’it® ^f33i 

3? 2t1<Jl1 

“# * ’w, «i^, lii f^m^i, 



W <gt% ’irtt ^\, gtf^ 

>IW ^lWr®sit5? «ftf»f^1 I tiwa 9Jt? 

*'mi 'jf^. 

; >R>3rt*l-3^*f fjR^^ 

'srtf^ f^?i^ 

?i*t?c’9 ^a fw«. ? (7r^i, 

fsfl, 515, *i1IJ«t^, '2f<IC51 t£l *(TCT— 

^'S(M«*f C5 1£JC^ I” 

_ ( ^ ) 

C*1’^S|tC«f?I ^^*1 »lt5f»1^®1 i£1^; 

I ®1^ 

*15?^ fs^ 1 

^t5t^ C*t^ '£lt<JlT'« si1 I 51>*1si*tC^ 

*ltats Mm ivn v[Zi{ ^f?i^l 

“# * f«R^2 "Sjfsl, 

s|C5 «tC? 1 

^ f«lf*C, C5 

’Va ;-” 

- (^^> 1 ^) 

t\m¥B] SI'SWI 55^1 ^151C^ 

<:*i^!«vf 'sif^c*! ’'ii*f«i<ji mn ^ can^ 

<2}tWt? fsi^ 5ltS1>1-f^Wt?l I 

«i%q ^HT'Sftm ^f5c^ 5[tt^5i I ^Fr«!t®5iwcii ^c^atcwa catW**i*f 
^sf^«. ^C? ftc? 515tf5l®t^ fsi^ITt 5^15151 1 5|^1? t5^«C? 

'®l^f^5[|51 I 

ca^Ff^rc^ si?^ CW1 irN'Jifsir^ c»ftt^T 

^?F^, i£i5*v fga 





i ntc*!? ®'ius«i 

5? I ^3*1^ C*l'^3, •>(‘^013 'S *1513J3 
5^3 3ff333 nr^ Jlt^ I f^f^ (5tf 3e.»|5! ^ 

i «#1t3 31*1 3t^tl55<, 

“*- * # ^Jl ! 

f33t*r ^1 ^fa «itf^ ^ 'Bf3ft3t*i I 
^f? 31 JJ 3 ^:nf« ; c^t^iai 
f®13t®11, f5T3%; C^t^«in3tC3 
^3f3^3 '5it5f33 c^t^itcira 5ltW ? 

— ) 

WsC^\ 3t*lBSC^ f3i<3 ^ f»f^tBt£33 C'fN’C® 

»ttsS3l 3t3 I ^'fta ^ 5(5H, f®f5l JI"!^ c^ 

^t 3 t 3 ??vfC 3 "scaa ot i 
\^3 ^tf f® (?!r*? ^f3^{ W3, 

3 r¥t 33 ! ! 

^ C3 3t^, J|C^, CfJl 3tr3Jrt£3 ;” 

— ( 'S '3 Jf’f ) 

3t*l5l®3 mm ^(^31 <£f^eit3 

3t«ftr!j, 

«ltf3, Mfe*, %*1*t1 -- 

f3fl1 3CT *ir33t3 #13 !” 

* # * * 

“r®<lttt 3133. ff®, f3f3® 3r3t® ; 

33 - 31311 , 33 -ft 3 f 3 r 3 f 3 ^ 3 C 3 ; 
f% (21313 =533^3, ( 3lCaf 31 C®l3ll3 ) 
f^l3 '»n^ ? *113^. '»rt%^ l” 

— ('i' 3 »Iif) 



*if?5itc*i 

?(i< ®1Tf^C'® ^51 I 

;^c«nt^<i irt?! 3F»»fR ^f2it?i? «rt sic? i ^^5 3p»»f^-«ff^'® ’^cii 

“’It^^ftw ^T€, f^3S ! «|35flT 

! ^-tfk W\W ^«!n ;— 

5l?*l 51*1 1” 

— ( ^ 5l?f ) 

tilt fC3 ?tC5l? 5f?t:ii? ’iftlp?! ’It'STlI ^ I ?l*llWUZi 

*1^ 5Fr?l^1 

Or?tcf 51 1 

“* «= m 5tft 

«ftf^, ^^OTft5?t«f : til 

til^pf^J^ '^fsj ^5? I 

C^ttl CT ^^9 

nt*!? ? ^tra ; m'Q Ma 
f«ffaw, atw«t^ !” 

— ( *)51 5l< ) 

at5i55 affaai 5f5iai c’tc^isi, i faf^ 

^rfesT® 'sir^a, ^ a^faal faf^ a>faati^a, 

Ma Ji'^«r>iaca -f^^a ^a ^fac^ia i atasraa 5fac3a tiitain 
taff^a af^atct at^>i^C2=fa >£if« a^acaa >iat^f^ 'Q 

«taii I ’I'^^iaa 'sftata amsa a«i 'q ^®la 'srsta 
af^l aa I 

si’aRcaa sfais fat5ia®i ^fai«i ot«ji ata, ^fa ai^aa tia'sta ■•^atr 
f53i ’^(ttatcia 1 ai’s^wa «ala ^ficsa 

*ifa 6 a caa i c'?aatai-ac^^ faaa caaRtaca*' aa ^ai caaa ^5, ^’acaa 



C(t 

am ?F?|1 tR I 

^?1 *(’^ SIC? i «^’tt*(’^®tsi 'Sw? ff»1 Sll I ^ f®fs< ?f^C'$ 

mf?lItCfS(, 

“sitf^ "Slf? *ttf% CT C^\*fC«1 1” 

?i«twug >£ttrtsi 

sita si^tsn mtt^itc^si i 

“’FSlJt®! *1*1, 

Sjtf? ^CSJ 'Sltr^l ; C^si - 

’l«tW*(I ^?, ?r^ ; 'srt'^5 - 

C-af^ C515|1 ^35?? ^«*(1 i” 

—(‘<51 yi’f ) 

5151^ i£i^ a^ifsi ti?? c?^i I ?t5[5C5s 

'« sif^ql c^t'<(t'« sit^ I <it5| \s 

^ 'sitircK^ 5ic^ ^5i5j®>r sjc? i 

r^5t? “C5i^;ilsr^^” af« 5j?t^t?r ^rnj ^\ i 

f^CVf%j ca^nt^l 5|^JJ5Jl ’?C«fC*f? <Sff« '51^5^3 

5Fr?i^Tt^s{ I 

'®t?’tr^c^i I 5if^vs ^ iit5it^*i ^%vs ^?1? 

a?*i ^?tc^ CT iSi^i fc'sr? ^ifwm 

^t?tc« 5itf?c®i? c’i^? I 

5l1^C^31 5l^»3?s< tt?t? ^C3T '5rtfw?C>l3 '«I?|^t?‘t1 ^C3S< sit^ 

R®! ; '■Q ^?F‘1?1C51? ?t?l1 C>iWc^I? ^ 

1 ^ f?5t? ?5f?C5l RSI *1tt?, ^t^Ntf^C® 

5Ff3 'Bimi at*(t?j I 

^fvus% ?^c?, ca^ CT f®f5i ^ 

^?p*tR5r?( . *151?? ?ff??tcfs(i ?tR% 



^ 5iw I c»[tc¥i^rtCT? 

"# * # * 

f% f^*ft'®l *ttni«¥t ?” 

— ( m*i ) 

C^tsi'Q ’lt<ft^*l ’aafTTt^t^ !?W;, *ll«tT 

^’«f3['Q '5I^?lgf^'$ f5tf?l’^flf?l '« ’f#l?J, 

^ 'Q n\m f5^ 

STf^*® 1 

NQ ^<5(1, r^« ^<511 I 

sj^jjwcsj? 5i^% CT?p>’'r 's 

Sl^i^ I ^-9*1 WMl[ >2ttiw 


“* * ^ ^Tf3Wl 

fe'imsil \ 

^«rc^ (?Rf5 

I fwt «ri®i C*\\f^ sif^ ; 

— ( »iif ) 

C7f^^v\ ^ Jic«n *1?*Jt« a! 'SI «I^P5il c^ 

f&a 'st^l i Jit^, bwww 

(?Ft^'« C^t^, CTt^ Vt®!l '^tt— ^I'Stl 



nt^trf I ^<5?t'8 'srf^ 

«f^l? fTw, ^?i ^f^spf^, 

^tf^-Ttf^f ^*rtc*r ; 0$^^ CT 

(7T 'si’lci^ I”— 

— ( 8< ) 

f^?lt^ '« 5|^ f^Rl?I ^<511^1 *2fc^ 51^^? ^5R1 I 

C5i’«fsrf»f^«f-^c^j wt^^i I 5Trt^ 

«r’S[5i?i*) CT ^<5n f^nitcfst 

«(i?gj5Jt*ft?i*i 1 «iTt? ^<s^l 3Fi^c«i^ 1 

Ttr^fat^”? l Paradise Lost- 

m «f<!f3i y\Z‘^ (Pandemonium) C^ 

»Nf5^5l5T'^C%iJ >2ff ^ *1%^ ’mi I ’tft? ^*fsiT?l 

'«Bf’fi « »tc^ii ac^’T 

?ltf^^ttf5l ; 'BTt^? *tt^, 'Q 51^ »t’?f?lt%<l 

’iftC’H C^*iq iic^il 'S(^T?l‘t1 <St^ 1 ^51?I 

<fr^ til’ll '«pit*mi*i 5itf^T-’it*Ri 
I (?i^!itw^«ni c«rl5^ ^<’11 ^fircsT^ ’ic«!r^ ^u[ ct, 

'siBP^f 'SI^’FU*! JFIC'^'S f?F 


«rtc*i5( CT >?i5it? ^1555? iRta I wnc^ 

’iPf^^l Pl’fT ^^51 I 


a— 124D B J. 



<5^ ^ f*Rrt^ ^1 1 f%f^ 

(?r«(t^5i c^, -stoitaR ^imt^ 

«wc?;?l *f^ ^ '^'k 'Sivt^l «TO*f ^VS 

911% I ^^*1 5^^»f 'SI’JFni?! ^ 

c^6^ %f^1 'Sf^tif ?tf% <Sli^ 

SF%91^ 1 (<1^ ^tlfC«l t£i^ ?I«itt< ^p{ m I 

“^^irh'ii” !if9ii9i ^r^^atCJRi 'si^tc^? c^ c*re^1 ^ i 

c«rf^c^ 'SRgit^«2n5j^si®i ^ 

%*pr5 ^ I fjiam ii*»f? <2if^ «itf5|j« i 

CT 5it5it%tt?n? >rf5i»^ '€ ar^t«f5i 'sm 

»nt?^9r%j I ;£i^w «i^>i?;*t 

^il ^Wr?l*t1 I f^C^5Jt>1^'^t?IJ 

'Blfjl^l’SR ^ ?(f^ ^f9l?1 *lf^5tf*t% ^ 1 f5C®ir5*l1’l^ 

^ 5ltk^ ^FTSl^f m '®lf*P5t^?J 

'5lfjl%t’>H >2|'*t*l f^*Ksi I 
m] ^ 

♦f?it«f^ *lap*Tt5T, f*iafc«i *ltfq, 

*rt»f‘!r'5rNt «rc^ 
c%^ r 

— ( 5|1W, *\^^\^, ) 

c£l^ f’tf ?fi*t <5|^«| ^C? 

i£i^x (?i^!?t*r^«f-5nc^j ^ I 

«2if^'5i’f?c«t? 1 ^n?i? 

^1^ ’fSRi 5i"^< *ltni ^]\ I c5i^t»n*f- 

^pn I '^t? 5l^t^t5JK^ C9i1?^ ftRlil 

^ »R^ *tptrg ^ «anit9t i 

^»t? ^W<i «i^? iS!9 CT c^Wt'e 'ststapt^ 

=11^1 »i«tf?j« ^tcf, ^t?t?i «it*f!rt? ®pitwCT 

»rtl%^ttf <i)5i*v «it*i^t?i '»rtpipf ^e.>ilf?^ I ^tni? c^ 



(t» 

C^8 ^ ?Ff^ *ff?5?| OT'QlJl 

»rfni I 

“csrs, %5 ^ >ltfil ^Itf? 

*flfl t55 5p^5 CT*jf^ 

T^% «lt^fC?i 

«f?)trii I” 

oa^ ^<511 C^T’ifl ^ft?I CT ?t^*f?I f^Tt^ <2WH 

I fsi3t^C? ^<=11 5Ff?c® C’fCSI ^*IJ^ 

«i^t*r *^if?[^ ^\ I 

"^^7f 'srt^CSl ^5T Vf*ft5R 
c««p:^9 I” 

— ( 2f<ifSl >l5f ) 

“cw:^9” »t^t^ 5t3 'Slt^'l 

1 ^fsf t^\ fC3 iSiVs 

»f«rt5lCS)<I sif^sit? 5l»<g«f i2f3F.lfi^^ 5(l I 3<^t3'Q 

'^mu nf^6^ ’Tt3 1 '8if*i«t’>R fpw 

^r®?l 51tf«1®T '8 ’tew?! >!*!^ I 

f^c*t3wtt3 5T^j ^t?i I Jic’f ^f^'s. 's ’nw 
•i)^^ '« f^#l^*t?! 5!CSff CT ^I’tt’l^^tP!?! ^*r^1 (?f'«^l ww 

(i)^ ^tt’tt?! 5t^t«r^ 5t"^? I (il^ fet’^il fW 

^5t?I ’Tt^tf^Wl ^ I CT 3T«FJt**t 

5Ff?!e®i^ ^<^^1 'sff^w'h'5 ic*»f? 5!t^r '« ^^^f’twl 

•rntf^w I 

“•ten ’^f'f '^te^l’T?! ’t?Few?i ttr? 
f^f? (?l ■?F^ '»tt*w 

nm f 



t£i^ <£t«i(jj wm «i^c5i f*iaii'f?i i^^f 

^rCi? ^?l1 ^C?( 1 

caFt«( 'Q fHtn's 1 15^ ' 5 rt*iii 1 CTfdc^ *t\\ 

^1 I 


^s(f^‘N*t *t^^i:^ 5T5|5f ’11»6tSI f*i'*Fl '« ^'5|^t? 'Sltc^itc^ 

^tf^rs I >ltf5«I >2fF«lt^? 51W >!CW OTP^il 

c»r^i ct\^ I 

^g)'®«( 1 ^1*61^1 'S11if»<’?^»f 

.SJ5*1 ^-\t I “^1^511 '5t^1 ^^l?1 

^51” ^t=?i ^lc« f^’f's ^5ifi5=j I f^?g (?it'5ic?tj?i 

a "gift ^\ I f^fsi ^f%C« 

l^crpit #r5tr<F ^f?C^ I 

(7ft«raJ fH’^‘1 1 

’tl*BN5I^tC^? £rf« ia^^'$1 5I5lfip|r *ff?lsrtW 
♦ff?[ 5 Tf^qr 5 15^1 1 Homer, Shakespeare '« Milton-iil?I 'STtH ^* 5 prfl? 
f^fi? 1 C51’?Rl^^*(-’ft^( CT *tt»Bt'5J 

'srM' '8i^[’rtw «t^1 511^51 f^iw 1 

Cf\^ ^51? “Western Influence in Bengali 

Literature” ^t^^ ‘Sm f^tCfsi :— 

“ There are numerous indications as to his ' sources ’ which 
he has himself given; e.g., the opening lines C^t^ (?R CTtlWl 
etc., of Meghnadbadh, Canto II, are taken as adapted 
from Cowper’s translation of Homer’s Iliad which, he takes care 



to add, had influenced Milton’s line — ‘ who first seduced them 
to that foul revolt ?’ Canto II was, on his own admission, 
taken from Iliad, XIV, from Juno’s visit to Jupiter on Mount 
Ida. In the same canto, the image of Rati is cast in the mould 
of Aphrodite, Kama or Cupid of Somnus. Later in the book, the 
character of Pramila may have been constructed after Tasso’s 
Gerusalemme Liberata, Bk. XVT ; Indrajit’s and[jPramila’s rise 
from sleep, after the similar experience of Adam and Eve in 
Paradise Lost, Book V ; Indrajit’s slaughter may have been based 
on Homer who never represents any respectable Greek chief 
slain in fair fight by a Trojan, the author’s sympathies may have 
been reversed in this case ; Canto VIII, however, is based on 
iEnead, as the poet declares in a friendly epistle to Rajnarayan 
Basu : ‘ Mr. Ram is to be conducted through Hell to his 

father, Dasaratha, like another ^Eneas.’ 

But more important than these interesting ‘ sources ’ is 
the confession of the poet that he conformed to Milton more 
than to Homer. The partiality for the English poet appears 
again and again in his letters.”* 

I Homer, Milton 

CT 'S >l?f 

CT Milton-C^l 
I Aliltou Paradise Lost 

“to justify the ways of God toman” ; 

1 Milton 'Q siW 

'«rrcf I Milton 


* Sen, Welkin Influence in Bengali LHereture, pp. 190-91. 





I *11^ ?it*i « 5\'*w*tr^ 

I *ft»6t^i 'fWif'T® ^ I 

>2rt^ >l"^«f'5tt^ C^ <2^^ ^ ; 

^C3 '»T<l'5^C^?f ^rilts;? «jttf»f 5?^ 

^I^Cf I 


?I55rt- 

«•?[ vQ qtfSsi Epislle-<il5l ^<(1 C*f? 1 ^'S 

CT «2tf« ^?R1^ «2l^t^ 

1 f^6ta 

^ I «ICKJ ^ I '«R’® 

“ '£if« <2tf^ ’S^n,” * c^rtw?! «frt^ ” 

<ft^ C^t*I«1 'S ^?p*l ^mn «2ttg^ C<T^1 

I srt^r^^?! <2l^»r I *ni^i, 

^l^srtl, W{\ V8 fC^t 

I vs ?I*?%?fC‘l? 

51C<(J ^ 'S 1 'Sf^ «t?t? 

c<£t*l fJlf^ 'Q ^f^'S 1 

5I^*I c$af ^ I 01^ 'Blf%sw 

^'5#t »l‘s^ ^tvs C*ni I 

“ (TrtCSl? «2l1^ 'StJj,” “ V?*f?fl'*f1l <2tf^ C^^,” “ ^>T««C8>^ 

^ <2tf% 

c«t^ 'SftJ!J! '8|f^t?J “(TttWI «2ff^ *5TW*t? «rf^ 

’^<«t'»n ” i£i^ c-sfJi-^ff^^i I ^rw? c-sm * 

c<£m 51C5, c«arf^^ ’ft?itaf5(t?) ^ i ^ 

cgt?W 'BTS®^ ’f 1 3re*f tf^® 



^11^ 9\«»t 1 '®t^ 

fsfSi (Tmir^ ^«T^t:is(, 

“ ^t?w, f% ♦rtt^, f^fV, (£1 

i£i ? ^•^ 51*1 *l5l-^ft^C51, 

?fta5rtc<if? 's (?f^*it^?i «f^?i 

'sittf I jTtf® 'sir’W »tt<i:^i?» 

?tte[ I 

'8 ^^5aj ^t?lt?l *lC«ff *a I ®lt3Wl i£l^ 

<21*1%^ ww 'srr*s}i5 tijvs (Tj «rr*rai 'smc^ ff?itw*n 

I *m^ *?l^ 

<2ft^^ ff®e.*f iPf f^1 

*i<*n I” f^^ (£1^ -SCT c*T ?jc*ra CT*i*m5 sn^ I 

c>ac*? ^*rttt^ ■s’if*! cat*!? ^ i 

“c^ igsj i£i^^fr, 

'SfV ?” 

4i! # # 4 

“ C5 C*fTW 

i£j 5<^-c*rt^ r c^t*!. 'sif^*rrcsi 

^r*j (?jr*f f 

^*ni ’f'sl? ^tc^5f 

?t«'2tt*rtw?i cstJ’f f6?t^i^i *a*tni 1 'sl^ 

^?5«t ^tc^l STSR*lC^ ?Ff5t^C55[, 

**«: * # . (Tlf^C^ <£1 I 

v£i*i %, sftr'm ! ^ 

f5iwf*r*f at^raw I 

•H5SJ '«(3!|5-f5?t aia i” 





sfltsTsl 'S ^Slai^t^ CT fsfa'® 

I 

V8 C3Tt»f'ft9 nus f^?ci '« ^^^^\;^ <2f^t»I 

1 ’^’f‘1^ *tca? «t?i nfa^1 'Bitc’^’mii 

sir^ 1 f f t?i f C'2t*J 51^ I 'e 

^:«f3Tr<j nc3 «2t^t*f nt^tcfi =^t% 

5f2TJtC*m ^t'CS I 

<2|f5 ^=^1,” “*f*r?lW^I «£ff® C«tPl?l ^t^J I 

^ nii?i I a ii5}^ “ 

CT ^U{^ ^^t®3p1 5(W? SICSJJ^ C«f?I ^1, CT 

^sftnrrw ” ‘‘^'jfc*j? ” ^%vs «inRt^ »itfs»c« *\\u, 

^ 'Q sic^fj feia ^tr^Titcr*^ i 

si^rstai^ 1 f^fa*f55 i.^\^ ^fa^i 

?55(1 I ^tC5 

firf^-ffeca? 3?5R1 's i ^^^\ 

ai9f ; M^ *3^13^ I ^rti:^’’{?r-*3fl?) 

>frf^ a 'sfa’it^sii m) «mtc^ c?"iiw^tn 

1 r«f% <2it*i-f^5i^ 

“ vr»r^«ira afs »i#tf«r^ i 

fawaa >2t^i*f ^!*ra«!tc^ ^%-v\ 

c3Pt*f mt»t ^«R'« 

*r1^ I »i^C"lC^3 r53ife »1561I*1TI 

^ftajJRi 1 af^c^cfq c^i, CT»ir*!»l1^c? ^f?^i ca^t^PR ifi?^ 

ii5t3 

“ ‘’^asi I’ 

^#ca «i^ca ff«i(i 
^ CTta ^iwa 5F«ii »it'^ i 



*ft^, ^VH TtCf — 

^ ’rrlt-ts^ cto ’TSCT 
oj CTtif Si:c«ra ?i«n^ i 

<21^? *ii*(i <2tf^f^« 

f^^tcf 1 vm >fw <2tf% 'sif^^ 'sr^f'i^ i 

sj^lfSl <2t««t*l >21^^ 5Ff^ I fc*»f, 

^t^i’fk^, 5I"^4 ^?I1 I C5i^ «i^?i*i 

^t°v®fl->rtf^i 5ii«(i *tf^<^<'$1 ^Vs 

^rmz^ I *Tt*6m ^t^j « ^1^1 <2r5t^tf^ List's 

*lC*fI s?t^ I »nfe51U ’Sfl’ftsn 

<Si^°s <£it '2t*(T^ ?t*rf^? 

C-2J5l«fl^1 1 ^9\'Q ^^511 

^^tCJ)T?( I ^t'5 

BolwfT, ®5t5wm, c’rtf^^^fTt’i, ^ '2r§f5 

»itfe«i c«r^ ^ »itfe5j?i 

f^f^iijtci5R '®t^f*i^^ Mf c?r?r ^vrt^ijft i 

?OT? ?l*(T 

'»15'5^ C5^\ I ?W?I 2133^*1 I 

Jlt*PF’t*l ’’f^l '®lf^f^® I 

igWt^'^1-'’5Fll^I 'srtf’T^W^ ^f??tCl|»l 1 

'S <21^ 

TKfjjl ?Ff?^tcf5^ I ^ 3«rt^1-^t«i ?5!rl 

^ft^putcf *1 1 ^rtt^t^ i2tf%i»lt® 1 

5Tt»(t^*l *Jt3S — ^I2ICT 

9-1346 B.J. 



%rc^ iri^ I ^ (H’»rtw ;ic^— c«f^ 

’rt3s i c’tc^w w 

«r*HCT 'ii’rti? ^CK CT ^ 

C^tW 'S ^^*1 '«tc^ '®t’5l ^f^’Sltt^^ I . ?tfwtii 

c^ f6?if^i};, ^ ?itii 

\ «{^f^ 51WI 'sprt*ft?«! 

^aj^ ^ ^ftratcf I cit^ cwf«rai 

9t^'ir5?l *€ I 

“ c\ f-c^ c^n ^»i, firs, ! 

^0?(C^^5?R^, -^3©?^ '81^, 

C'2|5rt!w-5irs?, 

Cf\ caw ^®rr»f^ f»f^i, 

^U5 ’Ttr^R, >if^ ! ? 

5^1 (^ 1^f (71 ^^ r 

«rf5i?t?1 ^fvf^ ^tf*(^tii mp{ 1 

<2rtff«^ ’I’l^ <f©?i 1 

^f*(^ ^•s^*Rf^, ts^, »ITfiI^1 ?WI 

I '2f<(t5( I 

ew c^ ^«f^1 fwtc^si ars}^ 

»ftk^^ *IW (7(’»ft’1t^ 1 f^fsi «sjf® «1^-M 

“ 'BTt’B *tt'^ ! ’®it5j?ii ?r«it*nit<(ft ^fii 

'Stf^ (Til ^?IC5(, 

5RfR #nictr <2rti ^ ^ 

(71 cst^ ? 

«rt? f% 5lt*rt iIt^^9R ? 

’'itsi, «(fii, «rtt^ ii|3it*fn f 



^’*fs('S-^1 *37tirtf*f *Kct, 'sit^t?i 

c^t5i*t 's wi I 

W f»ra1 ^I’l^'I? f ^-f^*Tr^ ^HtCS I fjiiroi 

^t>f '« <21^ »rT^^ti? I 

^5111% *r5 'Bl^lTt?— 

■^Sl, >155 55rt^«l 1 

ff f^tfl f 5i5Tt5?i1, ^trs >11^? ^M, 

S’lR-sfi^ (M^ ^nra (?i»R I” 

ig«ft^si1-^ti:55i^i *iwj '5rt>i?l 5^vrt>i, 2.^1^ 

'®rt*Otf%^ 'srtH (devotional sincerity) ^11 1 

C^ "sit^flTt^^ C'2fil*t1 'S 

m ^it\ 1^*rt>l15(sit^ #t5t? 

511 ; >rt«(5rt?'Q f^fJi ®f^*rt5i flc^iJi ^ \ 

51C«fI ^^tflCPiJl t£|^t ^5?t?I 

<2rfft5i I ^®?in 

JJ^tR ^^^ ?ltS(Tf^-C'2fJl«tt5l1 '515^51’^ ?55I1 5P^C?151 

^1 c^i^i a f^’pi 5jc*«j's c«f^ 

'S ^] C5ft51^ «^1C?I >2|?Fti-n’«l 

<%11 1 "Sft^fJtf^^ C'SfU'fl '« fs 511 «(tr55fC®T'« ig^?Ml- 

^f^55t®fil?l '5ir^^C*t?I 5t1% 51t^ I f^ilC^tl 551^^? 

wtH I till iifts;itc<it? 

5ff|^tl5fllU5 51tl I ^t5t« till 

^iftssit^ir 5if»iTitcf5i CT “tii^^ ^1 'srtt^? Itt *itai I” 

^i(ws\ c*f<rtl?tt^, C55it^ ig«ftflr;il-^tiai jrsrfV^F 

^’Jc'tin ^511 fw’Jrtc^*! I at*ft^ '®i5f^ f|^?[-^«ifi f^iat^n ^i**ri 

5^rtc^ 2!^|t>l *rtl^tCf5t I fliRJC>|? grf^ WtfrmcJtit 



'iv'. 

^35J 'Q ♦lf^6^ (?r^ I 'Sit?! 

hf63J 1 '5lf5!'$t’^'C?!?l ?F?f1 ^t*f fwtsi '5it5i?l1 •iflTfl 

fa*f»ft nt^ I a«ft95t1-?Ftc^i 

n?lt?! ®tf^?l1 tw?11 ^^'511 1C*W?! '^fa^ltCf*! I 

<il^?ti*f mfel C'T^t S!t^ I 

« ^fs| f*fC«t 

OS. ! 

^C?I %tf^, srt?i *tt^, 

0»r? f^'^CS' iSCSI iS59?-iSSi?t ; 

^?l siC?!tf^^ Hf^, ^fsi '$1<! >1W^, 
fir$i 'st^ ^t*Rtc«t ®!ti( >!tc«r ?pr<i I 

* « * * « 

* « # # * 

c^^^ (ij's ^91 st3tfs! ! - 

C*!^t^ ?’C«1, nC^ 

^?t?I S!t«11 ? 

'*11^ Sliest, 

acsr?! ^]^\ ? 

'•It'S *tf^ca 


?i5r^«T^4t 

»lt!ic^?l «fV?t5t ‘‘^^, (?l»f, ^tc^il 

wmifN ^ ■C’fSilt# I srt^C?FS1 st^st ’itf^'SIH 



\ 

I '»rf«K?Kn 

'3t^*i I ^»fpitf^®i <s!^ ®<)I1 ^ 

ac?it«R I 

^VS I w® JlWf 5ft3f5a*l, ^ f^C?t^*l 'Si<t^ 

^<Slta '5f?l^t**( 5^1 I ®t?l <£|^t& 

^ ^<?r5 5f#i«f '5(^f^5 ’it'jf ^ «(f®*l?i I 

cW »ft<^ afeitc^, tsa'v 

5It«(J'8 »ft<^J (?f’!(1 I CT n®Tt®^ 

^Hsrfc® 5? ®t5twa ^f^T%a srai 

at^ 1 

^ a«f5itfe®T f^rintft I a® 

c«t^ '5rt^« f^fV® I “ ^®s^ fsl^,” “ a^5it®i,” 

“ ^ ” fitff® c^ c^t^i's c«n»ra c«t^ 

5 ^ 1 :® »fTia I 'sitvfT^ af5® >it«fta®t®; 5 ^ ®tc^ faw f ? 1 

,a««fsj fcjg aa^TH 5?i, c*fc^^ fca ®T5if^? 

^«fai ®t5T? c^ti»'Q »ft^t a*ft'«rta ^f®aj1%5 cw'sal 1 
iSl’l ®tia ^r^®li^C«F ^'=^<®1 I C^'S CTt5?'« 

■<ff^— ^«n c»r^f^a— ftf®c® a5s«i ®fga1C5*i i c»f®r»taa 
f®s^tfe ac®]'^l5t® Btfai^ ws ; ®t5t?i * 11 ? ^ ica 

^fa®t1k^ 5Pit% ^cas? I 

ftt® ‘‘3fl®tc*rfl” 

t®1^ '®it«ta '21^*1 51 1 5?^®ta^?i 

5iw “^f^,” “^nt®t^5,vf,” “ f^«f^t5f*t#t ” a^ 

< 2 tf^ 1 C^51'€ '®t^ '®R^ 

®f^l, ®'Wr®^ 51 1 

7 ^\^*> ^fa®i1^ 5(C5i CT ism*! arfac^^'s ^I'^gcaa 

^^a®5l (2tWlH f®f^ f^%5|^ '^’T^fspit^ flw*! I aWw 



f|5T I f®fji fnR?rct^, 

“ si^'racs ^ \ 

inc^ic^ f¥^ ^*11, »fn(, 

5»f5^sifMl 1«*t 'TO! ; 

• * • c^^ ^’r« 

'srtf^S C5 mf^-»fril1 ^ 5JHCS1 ? 

5iC5( (?! ?” 

TV^ ttct?l 51C5<t®t«il 51<511 CVR ^ I 

i£i^% Cf\ atfe CT '5tf^^1 

^ w 'sitc^i’rsiii 1 «2t««r’? icn <gtf%^ 

^<511 (?T'«^ tflTs CH^ f t3f fs^ c^ 

I 5i5t=^tc^ 'sif^ ^ ^♦W?! 

51CS»C^?t ^^*11 W! 

r 

Jiw” Jicire^'Q >f;f*i^$1, ^3 '€ '»ff^if^3 

m^c^R 1 >2(31^ 5R ^c’lrst^ ;»w? ^<n w 

^c«Tt^ I 'St'irji ^ fca iSit «rtwt^? ^<^1 

tfl3°x C"R 1?I f ca fw 

^fh >2W r?p c^’jTl?” (£i^ fitnm 

^<53 ^1 <il^ f5<I«fC¥ -2fC3t«( ^ 

“— t£l <2f3tCJ! *1^ 

C5f ^p{ 1* 

5fC*^®t^l^'8 '5t^ 'Q 'Steals 'S *1*^*1? 

; t^c»r^:, '5ff*f^i*t 5i*(T c«r*Itirwt«f 

'Blfs W*l ^C? ««f^® I 



5<f&^ fqf^ 'aif^^ii ^z:«in:'!ir i 

'5i^#t '« <£(5Ft*f CB^ ^ I 

<^t ^tflW ^<5(1 'Sfc*t^ (action) <2rc^t«fft^^ I 

Drama “Drao” ^e.na ; Drao 

'5|< (to do) I 1 

'2f^f® car^ '5R^t?«tl ^l^^ltc^si, 

C>l^<rtW'Q ^ fsif^ '« 

arsi^ I 

'Slf^jfs* 

1 =^?t*N ^f5c?ra ^f?i?l c^^'^ c«ti >itf5«T 

ijf6^ nxm ^\ I mm 

'6 ^rfHfstjjra fBs I sTt=^1 *it3i«Tfit? 

«ttc^ I f^<F^ C«J%^^ ^1 

3tt'^ 1 cfjscti? *1tl5^t:^cvni mi^ aiff'S?! 

?^r8n» f5a ^c^si i 

'»fnf^*r5 1 CT c^tsi'Q ^t?rc*t^ 5^^ 

®it« ^cii 5rt^ 1 CT. 5rrStT?J ^rc^fj ^a^R ta^p^ 

arsj^ «itif ^t5l «2ff^^ *ic^ <51^^ I * ^ii^^ljrcsra 

srt^^ (*rf^, WRtff) c^'s fW^ 

^t»)jtii®t9r ^csn. f^t^ « 'tl^? 

la^# ?lt«P«3^ 

?Ftf5^ 'Sl^«T^CT ?lfF® I C»f^1 ^U5Cf CT, '“Tt’^fltf^^t^ 

c^R'« I '»rar fw 

f^'« t5 ' '^1» f^f*rtft-5it^ «fr^Ji 


^armw fsft “e»mi w ( ip*, i<>8« ) i 



's «t«f*i 

% >?! *)tc? 1 

»*t^l a«r*i I '8it«lit5r5t’t Ji5t^5t?r5 

I ’-l^til »lfat^*f C^iTS 3 Flfe 5 ^ ^t\ 

*ic^ c^. sifs br®j?itc«f?i w^Jtwi 
lii^ c«t^ '®i*’^ u£i^* ^51 c*r'«?tc® '=^flr5t^ 

1 f^’g ^t5i *jw 5? sii I nir 

'Stl^ '5t5Tt« '®I<5f9tf^ c^W« «ftcsi ^\%, 

C^sft^ '5TC^ 5=5 ^ i(T^ I tilt «lt«frfftlTt?T ti|^# 

^l?m OTt^ 5=iff^ 511 I »lft^til JUsr^W 55tf«5 <2t*tci[5 fta -TSlf?® 
5t?tC| ftt? C*fC5 I 'SICT? ’TTt C5 

^s|f& 5t!8t5| 055^1^1 Ht^1 'S »|ftl^ a^tCH? ^111 

SftfilC'S ntt5J| 1 t5l Ji"<3‘f«IC5 I '5|TC5^t& 

«srtn W15 tilt CT *lf’^ C^^ftl'S «t«fr^ *ltsi Jllt, M*! 

>i^5tt *11^1 [’futc^j?! f’fst? «rtwin 

C>l^1 ^5tf®?l af® «15tn C5 '£f‘l? >|spt5 55 

«T5f'Q ®if5*f5 '3 Jia I Mil C5^«ii'« fiiwc^* *|r5t«tc’i ^ifn^s 

^f5t« ’Itc?*! mtl ^T5T5 513 t£t»t5. 

5 lSt 5 *l «lf 5 TC't 5 fB^ ?PC 5 i JH^C^ 5 f<« 5 W 

tt5t5 BI5Cli<l 5ItC5N H? 5|i:5 I ^t5T?l 5|W^[JirC5 5f^ 

5t£«1'« f5f5| CTl’tt'8 5»tf5^t5 ’Itil 51tt 1 tt5t5 Bfi|t35 

^ 5§ilT5«il5 t^^ C^t'ft'Q ’t'«l5 5|C5 1 

5ltfeCT5 5C5I 215151 Bfe 055515(1 'S 31515 f*|3l IsapTSt^J 1 
05551^5 Bf5£35 51£51 C'215, 055 ^ f5l515 ftli 5t51£^ I 
(ilt f%5l^ 21|f%5 ^tM 'Q 5f’Jl«1t55 fss 55 5tt I 5^51-615015 

21515 <555 t515 ^551515155 C5fB3I, 5151 t2tffl55 5lf5r5^ I f’fl 
05551^5 5i:5i (;?f5C3 ’lit, t£l5’1?5 *15 t£|5F<t 21|f'5 ^15TC5f "TtBPI 
5¥f55l 5lf55l£t i ^1515 2l5f‘S5 «(55lC5 *ilC5^1^5 21315 215®! 

5t5l£l 1 555 55tf'55 25f5 C3‘tt55 35*15 5t5t£f, ^’55 ’3^-2r‘t£55 


U^i 1 



‘Id 

^tci! I ’sfmf^’'^ ^ 

Jil I f^^l ^3Pt5tc^ sfere f^’^lt’iCTt’ti ^ I 'IWSv 

’•1‘wi 'SR«>ft<(ts*i I «if® »rWgf ^t?c*i c3pu«( 

ft’Bl I «l9Jtgi 6fl3fsf«1 f^5l^ (iltilin 

c»r<fl I 

f^sr^c^ orfVc® i 

^ c«f^ I liit^ttpre c^rto 

»fTt, 5i#tC‘i’spi feni br5r?itw^ *ff^ '« ^5t5t?i t9^^«attl 

6f^ '2}S(TJ| 51C5, cq^'s ^51 

fgfai^ 511 I (Jit 5f?is1^ 5t^ ^8 I 

**tWtS5I^t.5|T^^ '5|?IT^f^ *fc? I ^ 

5^5 CT ^5t5 ^’iNrt^ \ C’Rwft’M 

?v5ii^ ^t’fjit^'^iii w ’®w^ 5RtR*r 

5^iitcf 1 5i5^5C5T5 c^tJ^e c*^f®r^ i *r^, 

^?!5?1, t&^ 8 ^^P\, 

^ c5CTC5i?i *tlwf?r5 1 nt<^ (£i% ct, 

Ji^^jrrsnf R^twtis 5?C5 i ^5>rrc5i C5wsi tt5t?i ^ 

l%f?9) ^it I ^a^pi « 

fRI’Ttfl 5^1ItCf. 5ic«a '*t5t?f 

5tTtC5l1 CTCH 1 >Tf5t^»f 

'®n:^1 c«(^ I ^5t?i ^ 5f5Cini 'si>T+tfT 

’Pt^I^«TtC^?l '®ltc^, tani’l *{5 is^ 

^ ^tC5 CT 'Sit*!?! 5T5W^ .am*! 

ntf? 1 ’^fl? fviiri fhm 

SIC?! ?rg1 ?rt^ci5 ‘ttC? ^(1 i c£l5^1 

1 <<j5rg->i5rtm ®*i, 

»f^, ?f^, ^ blf^ ^\ 

J|C*(T <2t3f%? '8|t'6t»l ^11 ^ I WQ 

»(ft?f *nw iS^fCTtiat ^*R 'af'lWK 


10—1246 B J. 



^ 5^5*1 ifJTs CTf^prWa^ 

'Bi^i'S’itc? =5!^ *rt^'? wt^l ^1^ I '« 

3it5i9C*ara c^ fra «rr^1 istid t5 ^^^35 ’*^*(1 

-Sff^ STt^CTtfs^ '®C*l? 

c*itf^^ <2rt%^ car^ »f%? 1 

I t5t?i *n:*(T c^'« 

^1 '5[«2rrf^ ^1 I lf^5tcJi<i 

I ?lt®«J^ 'SrN^I (TfNCS *11^ ^^^5lllt 

^ ^f?ir$ 3^?[ ’'TSJ’TiJ 

nf?6^ m 511 1 511^1 cwt^ ^ ^*1 I fsfj^ 

csn^ f^5it^*f? i 

?rfBfigt^ tfi^3r ^i1 

Ifl^^ ^I? 'Q 1^1 iSC^^TC? >« 

5(1 5i^«f '« 5(K I ’(i^»r5( 'sifs^its^ 

c^r^^iTi; '£fcqt®5( w^^*\ <itcii5( mft 1 ct 

'S 5TtC^f5^1 5(t&jaf5^? cai^ «1^*1, 5(^^*r5( ^t5l '5(t^^ 

♦rtc^Ji 5(1^ I 

^5(t^ ^^c*r ta^'x ®it’«(itc5(<i *ir?i5is?(5iH 
5it^^'«ftf5( 'Bicn^l 'S(tif*1^®tc^ ^?r-^5(ttl ^6R:aj%?( 

5(1^^ ^f^^l ’ifiS’tf^ me? ^\ I tfl?t 

m5(f^x? ^?;^*fii <£if5f5if??e*t *if?^fi.?5 1 

ft?!?? £rf^^ I t«ietf? 5f?3 cfi^^sii 'sti? ^rr^fl ^^tef 1 

^ ?twi «m«.f>Csi5? Fficas 

?tf5(5f^ t?ftciiJ? X^JI ’1T'«?1 ?t? I ^fi( 5ft^ ^tf5« 
^*(^tft I (TPJR ^f??1 i£l^ ^ 

^5i ^f??i cwm^i ?? 5(1^ I ?(i«fi >i^< fwt»jc?wi 

5f?a( siw ?? m I 



f 5P5 1 5pni f$t^ 

'sprt*ft?t JTt^Ji, 'Brt^jt’t 'e ^t?i *ffaR f^nilr^sn 

’(T’iftfB^ '2ft«ftgj 5lt^ I '0|f*(5Pk*f %Ti{ 

^^tcisr flr9fe.f^^5. 5iF^?Fl «£r^1% I tt5t?i 6to? t? ^ 
c»r^^ ^ srrt I f^c*tT5s CT 5rt5if^*v^^ ^Wa cs^^ mtTi^ 
^sm siCT ^ 5«1 1 'SHc?t*f-'«r^1?i-?iit^5^ 

^v>f t? i£i^ 

^8n|^ f53i «rtf%ii5 ’n*^! I 5»"^< 

^ftcasi I <f5nTt^ '« 'srt^f^^ttfe 

^ 1 5^?1 l1%5J^Ta 's <2r5js,’issif5r5?i 

fsn I 

^sf-l »ia*l OT I 5f?C31^ 

^ f^REW*!? f<C*t^ I f4^ yrt*ft^1 

mvf^\ f5>itca ^?1 I 1*1^^ 

vsnf?^ iRC*i f5fa^ 1 as^^a <£(1^ 

c«i^ »fts(— '>?t*i 

'« n'Jit^^-^tk’? t5t?1 

1 f 

?F5l1 <£tf«^ 5?5l f^^t*r ^Vs 5fC? 

>1^1. 1%f^ CT 51^^ c«t^a 5it^^ ^B^\ ^51 '®t5t? 

-SlJlt*! ■^ta t * ” t£l^^ 

•rtf^c^ c?r’-c^ atwt# ^^\im c«}%a 

5faC3?l ^13 'ft3 I CT fk^^\w f35t?l 'Q 

fW3l '2ft«(tgr f^3tC5 Cf\% >l5)tcw CT 35 

3'»J^B1^, ^5tr5 f3’3C33 31^ I 

Ji’savmi KC4a «l3t5( ^^C*1l33f fll^HI 'Slf3^l*f 

ftW5l 'am, vs I t£l^ c«t% ifl3F®3 

<2jf^f^r*rc3f C^a tt5t3 ^p?1 ’eitc^ c4\ 







?»6*n I f53I ^ Cil<tt? >lt«tc^[ 

tflg ve I 

a wsr ^<Jil '« f^c?pn;*nj i ^51 »ic'5'« 

I «2(5^C5^^ ^»(>ir5tC9 sr^'N 

Wfl?!:*!?! C*1 'SfM’f «t5l ^^tCf I JlfflC^ '« 

«(|'5 I 

^W sfeil >tsC^f9( ^C^£Pl 35^13 t£^-f^C*f^ 

^ *1tk^ '5(f%'$ I 

^t5t^’iirt^*i I '®i}5tiifj^in ^ttit? ’iw ^^<1 

*1^ I <il^ f®f^ 5|5C9^ 

53^1^1 lilt's I 

sm I tx^m Jit?? 

'«Rt5l^ f5*55Wl£^ <2fC^*t i:i55lCJi *fl^ 

I “ W *ftf«ic^^ ^t£® dr‘-iii^ *i'5 

J^PE I 

#tf«P C'f'S^l'Ta C6^, ^ *l5t*f?I 'S Jlf^t— t£l^ >l^®1 ^C»IJ 

^8 5f?af^£?t^C'(^ f^£*f^ I f"-J'9 

^fsnil ^d I '’ ^f?i^i£^si f^^£®i^ 

% ftfui %t?i ^iflrfsar^ j|"^4 ’it'f^ ^ili 



51^^ tt^t?i '5i9^'5t ^f^9ttn<i ^nca «f®t^ gt1 % ^ fgi^ 

4f^^tCIC^, CT '»rfsi«t^il asisi ^t5l 

^tc^i <2f5f^« ?tts5rt*ir mr?pfi5T 

m<R <2lf'®^ v^f 

f^r^ittf , f^'s <i55rt^ ^^>ni*i 

^?l^tC15l, C'^ts^'« '5#t I f C*w? ^«il1 

f^, <21^1^ f^5t^ ^?i1 »ftc? 1 

'« ilB^n I ?55^t? 

C3gt^ I C55155, ?I^55^t«ir ^ 

^^asitJKii W'tt l^b^\ ^twrc^Jj I 

f^’sil f^m c’tc^ “ <2r«t^ “ 

I f^C*t^ ^fil^ll, caw?i 

^T^J 'S ^ 

25^T^ I “ “ ^5 'Q OT?l^ilT 

^?t^?i1 OTH I i^^tsrs^i '« <2^5^ 

'2I<*(*I 'Sf’lf^ I *t<I^ 

C5*I6® '« s<^J?5S ?I5m 

«ftr^c^si I C55i5i® ^cwt sf^jjwcjra 5t% aft^^ 

c^t*rt? cw»r m^u 

I” 





(TRK??! ^ JTSPl^ 5^jf«r^ I 

< 2 rf^«tif '»rt»rT«SS‘t ail 

(?rfHa| «£ C?l^^ srtW 

C^Plt?[ «lT“tl, 

«(5| f«Rltf 'St^tC? 

5T?I SI1 '5t?f3 ! fiilfiR C«T?I 

^ f<(Jtf« r 

«fa| C5I%^ . 'S *W 

C*l f 

c5ifR5?i '« 

3f^®t?I 'S '£tf^'5t? 5W:*U ^C«f^ 

fiq I '« '2tf® 

«fej|tai ail, ^^<!U ^51? af«®1 (?m1*f '€ ilt^C^ni' dW^?i 

I C5S155 '«lf^6t?l 

sitt--r«p^ fsa'e '® 5i^ i 

sj^^ara 'S c^^ibcs? si^t^tc^ ^<*1^ ^ i 

f^lg C5ai5« CT OT^t^tiia 1,^ ?5!|1 

^5ta c-sfa^ti f%fai «ttf%t’5ai i 

ai^aiFc^^ 5[^<!(^ a*Tai a®ta 

=5"^ sit5 1 ^a ca'tatf't^ aFtaT3^c« ( bi^'s^p, f?R^3, 
) ai^wa at^ra cw^^lRfai i ^'stalftas 

1%fa? ^*1t«IJtai ^a«wa| ^fa^ll (ill ^i^®! aj^tai awi 

apfii^lrfai I (al 5PF®f ^tcai «Rtclja (fif^ 
at'sui ?ra '5t5T'8 ii^afcsia fiTsita? *(f353 c«Ri I ?itaa « 

csi3srtwa ’3< «itf%3l at^efl 

I ca ^taial aretartcaia atai aar^itflwi Tt^ aa arti i 



5|5t^t^ ^5511 5lt^ I ^5^ 

#t^5f?'5 C^t^SJTfir 'S “f^^tapl” ?I5^ ^fm 

«(t5tc^ CB^I CT 

C5^1 m I ^t^I CT ^f?RlTf5®l 

^VS\ t9^ f’nitlf I 

»f$t^ c^r^^ti’t ^t5i55 

(?R ?pf^ si5T^t^I fwHtffCT!? J 

(j\ «2Jt5$t'« I 5^1^? '6 

^ C^ C^ ^Itfil^-l Parody ^T ; 



^t^I 5»9t^t^T 

f55itr^ ?j«»>itr5r5i 'sifi'^Ti I 'S 

5TC5lt^ I *tH’^ '5l?J'5Sl '2(<*t«l (il^* 

§itc^ I tal f^bU 

^:r?r ^n I ^rtsrfwii >itf5c?i? 

C«t^ 51^*1 tflt CT ^3?t?l >2ftft '« >2fi?tft^ 'Bl’5^ 5151?? I 

^Mr? *#^1^ ^151 

'srf^ *ft<!*i *t1f*TC«f? ’«ilr^ dl-c^ 

csf^rt^tifjt, ^(’sf ^|i?tC55i tfic^ 

1 5JW ^ c^ 'StsT « <it»et^T 

c'ft^^c't? >fJf^ fl^i 

^'sn >i5rfc^ CTt^®c*t? c«ti5 i ^t5t?i 5)51^1 

?if^, ^?t*i I 

^w^i! 

'SItBt? "SPJ^ I «rff^ *IC*JT'S 

c£i^ *ft'«^1 ^^1 1 tat ^»ft5?a 

I tat (idea) «lt^ ^1a 5tc« 

«n^sa c^%i ’i^tc'Rj ttiw 

ttfitiif (71 Jitt I tst m] 

5tc« 51^ ^t^lif 

t^Tt >2rt%^t?I C«r^ <£^‘s tat ^^^t ^VJltfe^T 

t5I9®J[ C«t^ WtJl 1 



Associate Life in the (xama 


BY 

Atindra Nath Bose, M.A. 

It has long been the practice among prominent Indologists 
like Fick and Rhys Davids to hold that the Gamabhojaka or the 
Gamika of the Buddhist literature was a typical product of 
the popular and corporate life of the ancient village system. 
The evidence of the Pali works, especially of the Jatakas belie 
this theory. Taking into consideration his powers and functions 
from every point of view, the advent of the hhojaka whether as 
an official or as a non-official cannot be held to have been a 
welcome feature in India’s village economy.* But she was 
spared the baneful conclusion of the feudal order — exaltatibn of 
landlords into a parasytic nobility and reduction of peasants 
into serfdom. The bhojaka had no proprietary rights over land, 
no seigniorial rights conferred with royal deeds, the so-called 
rights of confiscation, eviction, escheat, etc., or of arbitrary levies 
like the salami, dbwdb, bhet or begdr or the bovine, banalitS, 
pSage, gabelle, monopoly of the dove-cote and so on.^ The 
peasantry lost none of their rights on their freehold under a 
royal charter : they only gave the tithe due to the king to 
another man. Nor w’ere perhaps their estates liable to summary 
sale or attachment for arrears of revenue. The periodical 
oppression and illegal exactions which they had to bear with 
could not reach the inner spring of rural life and sap its vitality. 
It lay deeper in the healthy spirit fostered by the tribal commu- 
nity, of discipline, fellowship, liberty and public conscience 

^ Sae my article in Indian Historical Quarterly,” XHIi 4. 

* Inscriptions show that the immunities of royal assignments were much extended in 



A. N. BOSE 


% 

among the villagers which outlived the chequered career of 
monarchical despotism and bureaucratic imperialism. 


Public Works 

The working of the communal ideal which kept the 
countryside pulsating with the exuberance of life is seen in 
Vedic literature embedded in the tribal feeling of the clan or 
viL The Jatakas, the earlier Smrtis and the Artha^astra reflect 
the further stage of its growth and interesting characteristics. 
It seems that the sweeping influences of Buddhism with its 
principles of liberty and equality gave a powerful impetus to 
the ideal of communal harmony and co-operation. The graphic 
and elaborate details of the Kulavaka Jataka are more than a 
utopia of priestly doctrinairism. The scene is a Magadha 
village of 300 families or kulas ; — 

“ One day the men were standing in the middle of the 
village transacting its business. They too, doing good works 
along with him (Bodhisatta), used to get up early and emerge 
with razors, axes and clubs in their hand. With their clubs 
they rolled out of their way all stones lying on the four high- 
ways and other roads of the village ; they cut down the trees 
that would strike against the axles of cars ; they smoothed rough 
places, built causeways, dug water-tanks, built a hall ; they 
showed charity and kept the Commandments.” 

‘^Te ca tiinsa kulamanussa ekadivasarp gamamajjbe thatva 
gamakammain karonti. — Te pi ten’eva saddbim punnani karonta 
kaless’eva vutthaya vasipharasurausalahattha catumabapathadlsu 
musalena pasane ubbattetva pavattenti yananam akkbapatighata- 
rukkhe haranti visamain samam karonti setum attharanti 
pokharaniyo khananti salam karonti danani denti sllam rakkbanti ’ ’ 
(I. 199). 

This observance of moral law arid civic duties discharged 
under communal guidance and discipline are the vaunted spell, 



ASSOCIATE LIFE IN THE GIMA 


3 


safeguard and strength of the villagers — manto ca parittwh ca 
vaddhin cd'ti (200). 

They are given by the king the village, the elephant and 
the bhojaka as slave for reward. Then they built a large hall 
at the meeting of the four highways. Even women are very 
keen to participate in this corporate enterprise. 

“ They had benches put up and jars of water set inside, 
providing also a constant supply of boiled rice. Bound the hall 
they built a wall with a gate, strewing the space inside the 
wall with sand and planting a row of fan-palms outside.” 

“ asanaphalakani santharitva paniyacatiyo thapetva yagu- 
bhattam nibandhimsu salam pakarena parikkhipitva dvaram 
yojetva anto pakare valukam aharitva bahi pakare talapantiin 
ropesuin” ® (201). 

The hall was completed with the construction of a flower 
and fruit garden and a lotus-pond. 

The Maha-iimmagga Jataka hints at the manifold purpose 
served by the public hall or sdla, the throbbing heart-centre of 
the village organism. Bodhisatta as a boy collects subscriptions 
from the playmates and gets a hall built in the eastern suburbs 
{'pdcinayammajjhaka — later referred to as a gdma) of Mithila with 
special apartments for ordinary strangers, destitute men, 
destitute women, stranger Buddhist monks and Brahmanas, 
foreign merchants with their wives, all these with doors opening 
outside {vahimukhdni). A public place for sports {kllamandalaiii) 
a court of justice {vinicchaya/in), a convocation ball {dho/mind- 
sahham) ; beautiful pictures, “ a tank with 1,000 bends in the 
bank and 100 bathing ghats ” {sahassavmrikam satatitthani 
pokharanim) covered by lotuses and bounded by a park, and an 
almshouse (danahhattam) gave completion to the building-scheme 
(VI. 333). 

3 Cf. the rest-house of Pataligama where the npasakat invited Luddha and his 
fraternity and strewed its floor with sand, placed seats in it, set up a waterpot and fixed 
an oil lamp (Svasathagaraip santharitva asanani pafiflapetvft udakamapikaip patitthapetv# 
telapadipam SropetvS, — Mv. VI. 28.2 ; Ud. VIII. 6). 



A. N. BOSE 


This is only the execution of the corporate rural ideal in a 
larger and perfected scale. The village sala is thus a shelter 
for the stranded, an asylum for foreign visitors, an inn for 
travellers.^ For the villagers themselves, it is the centre for 
recreation, administrative affairs and religious discussion. Last 
but not least, here is organised the collective charity. 

Collective Charity 

For this specific purpose the villagers and townsfolk are 
often seen to combine. According to the paccupannavatthu of 
the Susima Jataka, the people of Savatthi were used to practise 
charity by isolated families, or by grouping together into 
associations {ganahandhanena vahu ekato hutvd) or by clubbing 
together into streets (vUhisahhdgena) or by collection of sub- 
scriptions from among all the citizens {sakalanagaravdsino 
chandakarn samharitvd, II. 45). The Kalpadruma Avadana attests 
how the magnets of Savatthi gave a united front against the 
incursion of famine on their less fortunate brethren. The 
people of Rajagaha followed suit and used to combine for 
purpose of almsgiving. The subscriptions were raised in money 
or in kind. Here, as in Savatthi, apparently this was the 
general custom in all self-governing areas, on any dispute a 
division was called and the voice of the majority prevailed (II. 
196). Probably this was an imitation of the yehhuyyasikd or 
decision by majority vote as laid down by Buddha in the Vinaya 
Piteka (Cv. IV. 9, 14. 24), on the procedure of the assembly of 
the Sarngha. • ** 


Educational Establishments 

Analogous to the charitable works were the educational 
establishments maintained by the individual or collective aid 

• Cf. the SvatatMgara or village rest-hoDse in Mv. VI. 28.2. end Dn. XVI. I. 20. Here 
rice-meal ie aopplied to travellera— Vin. p&timokkha, pftoittija. 31, Theae ‘ cboultriea ’ were 

not less frequently built by private munificence. 



ASSOCIATE LIFE IN THE GAMA 


5 


of the people. The Losaka Jataka narrates that Bodhisatta ran 
an academy of 500 poor Brahmanas at Benares and the towns- 
folk supplied meals to poor lads and had them taught free 
(tads, baranasivasino duggatanam paribbayam datm sippain 
sihkhapenti) . The villagers offer a miniature replica of the 
municipal institution : for Mittavindaka is paid by the 
residents of a paccantagama to teach them what was true doctrine 
and what was false (presumably on the strength of his reference 
as a pupil of Bodhisatta) and given a hut to live in at the 
entrance of the village (gamavasino anhakatn susSsanaw, 
dussSsanam SroceyyasUi ' mittavindakassa hhatim daiva tarn 
gamadvare kutikaya vasapesum). But Mittavindaka s evil star 
brought the king’s wrath on the village and the villagers after 
holding a conference drove him out with blows (I. 239). \ery 
similarly another group of villagers paid a logician (takka- 
pandita) and settled him at village entrance in a hut to teach 
them lucky and unlucky seasons (suyuttam duyuttain, I. 296). 
In other places villagers give their quota in the form of eatables 
for the upkeep of a sylvan school in the vicinits (III. 537) or 
for the maintenance of a learned preceptor (II. 72). Individual 
villagers (IV. 391) or houses or kulas (I. 318) sometimes treated 
teachers and students in banquets. 

Religious Bequests 

Closely akin to the charitable and educational work, the 
religious bequests were another channel in which the associate 
enterprise of villagers found vent and expression. In one case 
we see them putting off under one pretext or another the 
construction of a cell for a Brother who had paid for it (I. 215). 
But inscriptions on the votive offerings of the Sanchi Topes 
(which are placed in the 3rd century B.C.) are living illustra- 
tions of this side of village activity. Here we have : 

Vejajasa gamasa danam (Tope I., No. 17) 

Padukulikaya gamasa danam (II. 1) 



A. N. BOSB 


Asvavatiya gamasa danam (I. 216) 

Ghunivamoragiri gamasa danarn (11. 49) 

Nasikakanam Dambhikagamasa danam (Nasik Cave In. 

20. YI)’ 

rendered by Senart as gift of the village of Dambhika of the 
Nasik people ; 

Gifts were also made from among restricted associations, 
committees (gothi) or families {kula) : 

Gift of the Bauddha gothi from Dhamavadhanana (I 25, 26) 
,, ,, Barularnisa ,, Vedisa (I. 51) 

,, ,, Vakiliyas from Ujjeiii (27) 

,, ,, Kula of Dhamutara (1. 27 Gj 

,, ,, sons of Bisagiri from Puruvida (I. 290) 

,, Subhaga, Pusa, Nagadata, Sagharakhita, 

inhabitants of Kuraghara (I. 375).“ 

That the villagers did not content themselves by merely 
making over endowments and setting up temples is proved by 
the significant institution of the gosthi which is explained by 
Biihler as a Committee of trustees in charge of a temple or of 
charitable institutions. Here the people sent their representa- 
tives to manage their endowments and guide their religious 
observances. 

The entertainment of Buddha with his Fraternity by the 
faithful which became a general custom in the Gangetic 
provinces was performed sometimes by individuals, sometimes 
by families, sometimes by gamas and even whole clans. A 
single family might make a house to house collection of food 
materials (Jat. II. 85, Mv. VI. 37) or all the villagers might 
come forward {ibid., 28.2; 33.1). The Mallas of Kusinara even 
make compacts that whoever does not join the reception shall 
be fined and that the members should regale the Samgha by 
rotation (ibid., 36). Sometimes it was the turn of a section or 

6 For further instances of this nature see Amaravati Inscriptions, E. I., XV. 18, 
Also B&rbut— Earahakata nigatnasa d&naip. 



ASSOCIATE LIFE IN THE GAMA 


1 


assembly (puga, Cv. V. 6,2; 26; VIII. 4. 1). The corporate 
unity and homogeneity of faith among the villagers facilitated 
the conversion of villages en masse by Buddha repeatedly claimed 
in the Pali canon. 


Economic Co-operation 

The villagers were closely knit together by economic bonds 
of diverse sort. They maintained a common neat-herd to take 
charge of and graze their cattle in the adjoining pasture or 
forest (Jat. I. 194, III. 149; An. I. 205; Rv. X. 19) on pay® 
or on a share of the dairy produce which was standardised by 
specialists at 1/10 (Arth. TIL 13; Nar. VI. 2-3; Yaj. II. 194). 
Traces of collective farming are not wanting and it would not 
be extravagant to conjecture that the (gamakhetta) in which the 
several plots were demarcated by irrigation canals, was cultivated 
under collectivist initiative (Vr. XIV. 25, Arth. II. 10 ; Jat. II. 
109). The casual reference in the Jatakas to the ploughing 
festival {vappamarngala, IV. 167, VI. 479), a great annual 
ceremony when the King held the plough along with the 
peasants, conjures up a cheerful associate life and a full reali- 
sation of the community of agricultural interests. That the 
village formed a compact self-centred unit is indicated by the 
Smrti emphasis on village boundary and the frequent Pali 
reference to the village-gate (gamadvara, Cv. V. 24.1 ; Jat. I. 
239, V. 441 ; Mil. P. 366, etc.). The kings recognised the 
economic entity of a village and treated it as such. Va^istha 
characterises it as corporate unity and speaks of collective fine 
imposed on it (III. 4). The Jatakas have many allusions to 
kings raising the tax of a village or exacting fines from it as a 
whole (I. 234, 239 ; III. 9). 


® This, according to Nftrada, is a heifer annually for tending 100 cows, a milch oow 
for 200 and the right to milk all the cows every 8th day (VI. 10). 

^ See S. Hardy, “ Manual of Buddhism,” p. 150. 



8 


A. N. BOSE 


Gdmahiccam 

In the Maha-assaroha Jataka as in the Kulavaka Jataka, the 
30 inhabitants of a paccantagdma^ here in Kasi, “ gathered 
together very early in the middle of the village to transact its 
business” (te pdto va gdmamajjhe sannipatitvd gdmakiccam 
karonti, III. 8). When the village tax was increased the man 
who was the cause of the trouble was jointly induced by the 
villagers to go and see the unknown horseman and they provided 
him with the presents {pannakdram) he required for the visit. 

The quotations amply clarify what were the gdmakamniarn 
or gamaktccam to deliberate over' which all the villagers 
assembled in the central hall. These comprised judicial 
functions,® municipal work like irrigation, road-making, etc. ; 
humanitarian and charitable activities, subsidising academic 
foundations ; sacrificial performances, pious invitations and 
religious endowments with the formation of boards of trustees ; 
examining the state of crops and incidents of general interest. 
Kural problems loomed large and from here started the ‘ marches ’ 
and deputations to the hhojakas or higher autHbrities urging 
relief against famine (Jat. II. 135,367 ; V. 193; VI. 487), 
beasts, robbers (Jat. V. 459), yakkhas (Jat. V. 22) and similar 
pests. Sometimes grave decisions were reached in this village 
council which infuriated peaceful masses into bloody revolt to 
pull down the instruments of autocracy and tyranny which 


^ This is conjectural. The sahha^ parisa, rdjaJcula a,nd pUga are given as assemblies 
which examine witnesses (Mn. 41.141). Later Srartis (Yaj, Nftr. Vf), substitute gana, ireni, 
and hula for the first three. The sahhd and the gana fit in with the village assembly. There 
is also the express reference that a Brahraajja must not take the food offered by those 
who are punished by a gana or a yiU&ge^^ganagramabhi’Mstandm (Mbh. XII- 87.80). 
In the Jatakas we have the solitary reference to the vinicchayan^ (VI. 888) as part of the 
sdla, whereas the bhojaka appears as the habitual judge of village causes, enjoying fees and 
fines. He is more an official than a popular personality and has little association with the 
democratic rural apparatus (see my article in the “ Indian Historical Quarterly,** loc. cif.). 
Did the bhojaka hold the pleas of the crown, and the village sabhd meet only to enforce common 
law and corporate obligations under the sanction of social ostracism ? 



ASSOCIATE LIFE IN THE GAMA 


9 


infringed: their traditional rights and interests sanctified as 
common law.* 


Industrial Villages 

The industrial and professional gdmas of the Jatakas exhibit 
a closer bond and homogeneity than the agricultural gdmas. 
We have a fishing village of 1,000 families (kulasahassavdse 
kevattagdme) in Kosala of which the 1,000 fishermen used to go 
out in a body with their nets ([. 234). The anglers (hdlisikd) 
in another village are in the habit of sharing their prize as it 
appears from a ruse planned by one of them who had a snag in 
his tackle and took it to be a big fish : “ puttakarn matu 
santikarn pesetva pativissakehi saddhim kalaharn karapemi, evam 
ito na koci kotthasam paccasirnsissati ” (1.482). Four weavers 
in Benares used to divide their earnings in five shares, keeping 
four for themselves and giving one for charity (IV. 475). In the 
kingdom of Kasi, a smith’s village of 1,000 houses {kammdragdma) 
was organised under a head (jetthaka. III, 281), Near Benares 
on the two sides of the Ganges were two villages of hunters 
{nesddagama) with 500 families in each and each organised 
under a chief (VI. 71). Benares also offers the example of a 
village of carpenters (vaddhakigama) with 500 members who 
organised into a body under a head, plied their trade and 
received wages together and led a common livelihood (1. 18).’“ 

^ Instanoes of popular revolt agaiost misrule are not wautiog in the Brahmapas and in 
the Jfttakas where they sometimes expel or even execute their princes together with unpopular 
officials. The fear is portent in the Artbadastra (VI. 1), Manu (VII. 113) and Sukraniti 
(IV. 7. 838-39) all of which issue solemn warnings to the king against this grave retribution 
of tyranny In the Anudasana*parva> Mahabhiprata, armed revolt against and deposition of 
unprolecting sovereigns is definitely enjoined upon subjects (61. 32f). The Ceylonese cliroui- 
cles at ate that the kings of Magadba from Ajatadatru to Nagadasaka being all parricides the 
people bani&hed the dynasty and raised the amatya Sudunaga to the throne. The people of 
TaxiU revolted against Asoka for official maladministration who sent prince Kuu&la to restore 
order and good government (Baychaudhurif ** Political History of Ancient India/* 3rd edn., 
p. 24^f.). See also J&t, I. 326. IIL 6U, VI. 166, 493ff. 

It is not to be assumed however that every such village with localised trade formed 
a close corporation iJit. II. 406, IV, 207, V. 387), 



10. A. N. BOSE 

Similar references there are to villages of salt-makers {loryaMra, 
Mn. 128, Jat. III. 489), basket-makers (nahkdrtt, Mm, 99)., 
robbers (coro, Jat. I. 297, IV. 430), actors (nata — see Buhler’s 
note in E. I. I. 43) caravan-guards, Brahmanas, canddlas and 
outcasts. This isolation of crafts and professions and their 
concentration in fixed areas gave birth to the medley of castes 
and sub-castes which, formerly a more or less priestly hypothesis, 
now began to harden into rigid social partitions on the basis of 
occupations tightened with the bonds of heredity, endogamy and 
exogamy, rules of the table, etc. The corporate unity, combined 
with localisation of industry tended towards a narrowness and 
exclusivism whose dour consequences we are suffering for gene- 
rations and centuries from the past.^‘ 

The evidences of the Jatakas are fully corroborated in the 
Sastra literature. In a rule of the Arthasastra (III. 10) it is 
presupposed that villagers may collectively employ a cultivator 
(karsaka) on contract advancing wages and food and drink 
(c/. Yaj. II. 193), or a hireling for sacrificial performance 
(prahavanesu) . The village collectively appropriates the fine 
imposed on a breach of the contract. It also appears that it was 
the compulsory duty of every villager to co-operate in the pre- 
paration of a public show (preksayamanariihdah na prekseia) 
and in beneficial works of public utility {sarvahite ca karmani) 
on pain of fine calculated at double the aid due from him. A 
person undertaking a public concern must be similarly obeyed by 
all on pain of fine, Brahmanas and even superior folk not 
excepted (cf. Yaj. II. 191 ; Vis. V. 73). Villages might also 
undertake the combined performance of a sacrifice. The chapter 
is closed with the quotation of a verse : 

" N. Banerji throws oti( a plausible expIanatioD of the rise of inJusltial gdma*. Hit 
plea is that originally the industrial population in eacli village catered to the requirements 
of the agriculturists as was the cage with most villages in Pftoini’s time (VI. 2.62; V. 4. 95). 
With the increase in demand of their wares, they freed themselves from the tutelsge of agri* 
cultural interest and withdrew to places where they had better facilities for pursuing their ; 
occupation without let or hindrance. ‘‘Economic Life and Progress in Ancient India/* 
Vol.I,p.212. 



ASSOCIATE LIEE IN THE GAMA 


11 


Those, who with their united efforts construct on roads 
buildings of any kind beneficial to the whole country and who 
not only adorn their villages but also keep watch on them shall 
be shown favourable concessions hy the king.” 

Eaja dei^ahitan setun kurvatam pathi sainkramat 
Grama^obha^ca rak§a4ca tesam priyahitam caret ” 

Compulsory participation of villagers in a co-operative 
undertaking involving expenditure and profits is also dwelt 
upon (II. 1). 

In the Dharraa^astras the king is directed to exile a man 
who violates the agreement of the corporate unit of village or 
locality (Manu V. VIII. 221; Vp. VIII. 9; XVII. 5). The 
extensive functions of municipal bodies are given by Vrhaspati 
(XVII. 11-12) 

Sabhaprapa devagrba tataga’ rama sarnskrtih 
Tatha'natha daridranam samskaro yajanakriya 
Kulayanain nirodha^ca karyam asmabhirams'atah 
i’annaitallikhitarn samyak dharmya sa samayakriya. 

Thus the municipalities not only undertook sacrifices and 
building and irrigation works but also communal charities on 
behalf of the indigent and relief of the afflicted in times of 
famine and other national calamities (‘ kulayananirodbah ’ is 
explained in the Vlramitrodaya as ‘ kulayana-durbhiksadi 
apagama-paryantasya dharanam ’)• Elsewhere it is directed 
that the funds of public associations may be properly spent on 
behalf of the helpless and the decrepit (XVII. 23). 

This is only a matured form of the communal village lilt 
manifested in the gams of the lawgiver’s time." 


For * used as corporate rural or tuuuicipal asaemhlj* lee B. C. Majuoidar, 

** Corporate Life in Ancient India**’ 2nd ed.t p* 188, 



02 


A. N. BOSE 


Communal Amusement 

Tbe corporate village life expressed itself in no less 
pronounced manner in a lighter and festal mood. It has been 
shown by a German scholar that the Vedic sahha served ps the 
modern club-house after the closure of its business.” Later the 
samaja as.'sumed a similar role. It had a fixed site (Mbh., XII. 
69.11; Jacobi, Jaina Sutras, II. p. 117) where it organised 
dances, songs, music, recitations, acrobatic feats and conjuring 
tricks (Du. XXXI. 10; Cv. Y. 2. 6).“ The pekham in the 
Dighanikaya, I. i. 13 is explained by Buddhaghbsa as nata- 
samajjd. The Jatakas use the term as fairs in general (1.394; 
III. 446, 541). Among the variety performaces of the samajja 
were combats of elephants, horses, buffaloes, bulls, goats, • rams, 
cocks and quails ; bouts at quarter-staff, boxing, wrestling, 
sham-fights, roll-calls, manoeuvres, revues, etc. (Dn. I. i. 13; 
Jat. III. 541. Introductory story of Pacittiya 50, Vin. IV. 107). 
The Vinaya passages show that at these food was provided as 
well as amusements. These platforms Asoka used to propagate 
his dhamma by showing the people the spectacles of the 
vimanas, hasiins, etc. (R. E. IV). The description of the 
gosthis by Vatsayana (K. S. IV) embodies a more unbridled 
vein of hilarity and amusement (not at the sacrifice of enter- 
prises of public benefit for that matter) and is a contrast to the 
puritan denunciation of fairs and fair-fans in the Buddhist 
Suttas (Dn. I. i. 13; XXXI. 10; Cv. I. 13.2; V. 36). 

From Tribal Autonomy to Corporation and Democracy 

Sanskrit works and inscriptions profusely deal with local 
units, the democratic bodies that governed them and the popular 

W Zimmer, “ Altindisches Leben,” pp. 172 ff. 

Khys Davids suggests that th^se may have been survival from exogamic commu- 
niatic dancings together ” — Dialogues of the Buddha.*’ Afufaa and nariukai figure promi- 
nently in utiavas and aama;at conducive to tbe well-being of the State in RamAya^a II. fi7.10; 
100.44, 



ASSOClATje LIFE IN TfiE GiMA 13 

ciubs and committees under the various and not strictly distin- 
guished appellations of henl, gam, j&ti, puga, etc. ; of sahhd 
samiti, nikdya, pari^ad, samuha, etc.; of gosthi, samdja and so on. 
These bodies had their laws held sacrosanct, they enjoyed auto- 
nomy in their affairs, administered judicial and municipal 
functions, had their funds and finances and sometimes even 
minted coins in their name (Basarh seals).’® The Sakyas, 
Licchavis and similar oligarchical clans who held their deli- 
berations in the santdgdra, exhibit in fulness the original 
communal brotherhood. The assemblies of heads of families as 
seen in the Jatakas and of elders as manifested in the Smrtis 
and the Arthasastra reflect the earliest stages of the growth of 
tribal communities. The testimony of later Smrtis (Vrhaspati, 
Narada, etc.) and of inscriptions not only South Indian demo- 
strates that these early nebulous institutions later evolved into 
well-defined structures and functional divisions and the full- 
fledged idea of corporation.’® The original tribal autonomy was 
replaced by a democracy with its constitutional conception and 
implication fully understood. 


Ad elaborate catalogue of these iostitutioos and their respective functions is given 
in Radhakuraud Mukberii’s ‘Local Self-government in Ancient India/’ 

SeeE. I., I. 20, XIV. 14, XV. 7. 




PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 

BY 

Benoy Gopal Ray 
( HAITER 1 

Philosophical Outlook and Method 
( 1 ) Outlook 

Bernard Bosanquet writes in Essentials of Logic, “ It 
is not cleverness or learning that makes the philosopher ; 
it is a certain spirit, openness of mind, thoroughness of 
work and hatred of superfic-iality. Each of us, whatever 
his opportunities, can become in a true sense, if he has the 
real philosophic spirit, in Plato’s magnificent words, ‘ the 
spectator of all time and of all existence ^ So was 
Bosanquet himself. If we care to go through the brief 
but finely balanced account of his life, written by his wife, 
we find that he was a true philosopher, a lover of truth. 
From his vin-y boyhood he had in him three characteristic 
features — gentleness, strenuousness and discipline. Rev. 
W. E. Plater writes of him, “ He never shirked any question, 
but tried to get to the very bottom of things and to set 
before us the arguments on both sides before enunciating 
his own conclusions.” 2 As a teacher of philosophy, he 
exercised infinite patience and gentleness in handling the 
class. He writes, “ I have a definite theory, which, is that 
it is my business to explain and not to argue, and further, 

^ Essentials of Logic, p. 1 

® Pelen Bosanquet, Bernard Bosanquet : Short Account of his Life, p. 32» 



2 


BENOY GpPAL RAY 


to explain my own mind, rather than to make a theory 
at that stage. So if a man is all wrong and hot, I think 
of it as my duty merely to say, in the simplest way, I 
meant this and this, that was all. I do not feel opposition 
unless I forget myself.” ^ Dr. Gow writes of him, 
“ His life was marked by a great sincerity and beauty of 
trust, by high courage and deep love. He always sought 
to see the best in others, he always made for peace. He 
lived habitually in the light of his own religious faith. 
A tireless worker, always eager to bi’ing out the best in 
others, living in union with that perfect goodness which 
he felt to be the ultimate reaUty, his life radiated with 
quiet Joy and a deep peace which passeth understanding.” ^ 
Bosanquet loved work. He writes to his niece, 
“ To enjoy time without wasting it, is the highest art 
in life perhaps.” ^ He was an indefatigable worker. He 
devoted the whole of his life to lecturing and organising 
social service. Besides writing numerous addresses, essays 
and symposia, he finished no fewer than twenty-five volumes, 
into which he poured his very best. He always lived 
his theories and beliefs. He preached the unity of the 
whole. In his daily routine too, he was an ardent follower 
of this truth. He believed in co-operation and the ‘ art 
of living together.’ He looked upon the whole movement 
of thought as essentially co-operative. Helen Bosanquet 
writes of him, “ In all things he practised self-control ; 
and in matters of comfort or convenience it was a deeply 
rooted instinct, which to the end I could never weaken, 
to prefer others to himself. In short, he had practised 
the ‘ art of living together ’ until he had brought it to a 
rare perfection.”^ He got the lessons of totality from 


^ Bernard Bosanquet, p. 52. 

2 Ibid., pp. 151, 152. 

3 Bosanquet and his Friends (Lotters edited by Muirhead), p. 309, 
* Bernard Bosanquet, p. 84, 



PHIL080PHY OF B08ANQUET 3 

life and extended it to philosophy. This is why he makes 
so much of logic in his philosophy. Logic is the spirit of 
totality. It is the clue to reality, value and freedom. 
He w;rites, “ By Logic we can understand, with Plato and 
Hegel, the supreme law or nature of exi)erience, the impulse 
towards unity and coherence ( the j)ositive spirit of non- 
(X)ntradiction ) by which every fragment yearns towards 
the whole to which it belongs, and every self to its completion 
in the Absolute, and of which the Absolute itself is at 
once an incarnation and satisfaction. ... It is the 
strict and fundamental tr\xth that love is the mainspring 
of logic.” ^ 

Bosanquet had always an open mind. He was a 
worshipper of truth. He feared none, hated none, but 
loved all. Wherever he went, he always shed his benign 
influence. “ He never showed a trace of the jealousy 
which is sometimes attributed to men of letters and never 
a trace of patronage or superiority towards his juniors 
and intellectual inferiors.” ^ Quite ungrudgingly he would 
express his gratitude to his superiors. Thus in a letter 
addressed to Signor Vivante he writes, “ Now I am a 
follower of Bradley, though I was a pupil of Green and 
still value his work very highly. But Bradley’s system 
is very complete and original though founded on a very 
jxrofound study of Hegel.” ^ 

Bosanquet was a lover of nature. He liked an open 
out-door life. He writes to a friend, “ Really the moor 
yesterday was quite ideal. Sea, distant clouds and purple 
hills, bright sun near, splendid heather and needful but 
not lavish birds.” ^ He heai'd the pulse beat of reality 
in every turn of seasons and enjoyed it. Helen Bosanquet 

* Principle of Jndividnalii}/ cind VciluCf p. 340. 

^ Bernard Bosanquet ^ p. 02. 

* Bosanquet and his Frtcnds (Letters edited by Muirhead), p. 202. 

* Bernard BosanQuei, p. 30. 



4 BENOY GOPAL RAY 

writes of him, “ One of the great attractions of the place 
(Oxshott) was the wealth of colour which it afforded to 
satisfy his eye, in the mingled gold and purple of gorse 
and heather, the deeper gold of bracken and birch trees 
in the autumn and the infinite variety of green in the 
spring foliage.” ^ Ho saw the stamp of the Absolute on 
the green, heard the call of the Infinite in the song of 
birds and felt the presence of the Etei-nal in the flowering 
of roses. This is why he accorded a very high place to 
nature in his philosophy. “ All finite minds fociis and 
draw their detail from some particular sphere of external 

nature Every instinct of what we call the 

lower creation, every feeling of joy, of energy, of love, 
even throughout the animal world, is the outcome of some 
set of external conditions as focussed in life and mind, and 
is fitted to pass as their crown and climax into that complete 
experience which is the life of the whole.” ^ 

He used to say that philoso]>hy could make its full 
appeal only to those who knew life. H(^ wiitcs, “ You 
should remember that philosophy can tell you no new 
facts and can make no discoveries. All that it can tell 
you is the .significance of what you already know. .4nd 
if you know little or nothing, philosophy can tell you 
little or nothing.” ^ His wife writes of him, “ To find 
in life new material for ])hilo.so])hy and to take back to 
life the wider views gained l)y philoso])hical insight — 
this I think may be said to have been his vocation.” ^ 
Never did h(; attribute a .segregated and inde})endent place 
to philosophy. He found philosophy in every walk of 
life. God is not to be found in abstruse and cold philo- 
sophical speculations. The Absolute is a common-day 


^ Bernard Bosanfftiet, pp. 88, 

Principle of Indlvklaalitij and Value, p. 371. 
^ Essentials of Logic, p. 10(>. 

^ Bernard Bosanquet, p. 55, 



6 


l^Hl hOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 

experience. He writes, “ The general formula of the 
Absolute, the transmutation and. rearrangement of parti- 
cular experiences and also of the contents of the particular 
finite minds, by inclusion in a completer whole of experience, 
is a matter of every-day verification.” i Again his Absolute 
is only “ the totality of a hold on reality.” ^ 

Life, for Bosanquet, is mainly an expansion. When all 
our faculties are expanded, we enter upon a new freedom. 
Things that were alien become friends and kindreds. 
Bosanquet always insists on the full and harmonious 
development of all our faculties. This is why central 
experiences are so important in his metaphysics. Central 
experiences are the great and sublime moments of fife 
when our souls are most expanded and freed. They are 
not merely cognitive. ” The peculiar meaning which 
Bosanquet attaches to (the central experience) may be 
most readily grasped by noting that feeling and conation 
as well as mere cognition are involved in it. That there is 
an exclusively cognitive meaning of the notion in the 
commonly accepted sense of ‘ relevancy and weight of 
evidence,’ he of course does not deny. But he urges that 
the principle involved is not limited to cognition and that 
we are forced to apply it in the realms of feeling and will 
when we undertake to be critical here.” ^ 

What do the central experiences yield ? Central 
experiences give us the metaphysical standard. The 
standard is positive non-contradiction. It is the principle 
of consistency, the spirit of the whole.^ Bosanquet never 
prefers isolation. That which fails to fit into the whole 
is repudiated as worthless. The aim of analysis is to 


^ Principle, p. ini). 

^ Ibid., p. 

G. VV. C'uniiiiighain, The Idealistic Argument in Recent British and 
American Philosophy, p. 410. 

* We shall have occasion to speak more on it in Chapter III, 



6 BENOY GOPAL RAY 

develop a synthesis. Facts are analysed so that they 
might be woven into a synthetic whole. Bosanquet applies 
this standard to every sphere. He applies it to the sciences 
of morality and aesthetics. As to Ethics, he never professes 
to give us any code of moral action. As to the duties of 
citizenship he writes, “ It is always true that to grasp 
things as they are — that is, in their spirit and movement — 
we must grasp them in their connexion as a whole and the 
duties of citizenship form no exception to the rule.” ^ 
As to aesthetics, he is of opinion that an aesthetic experience 
is characterised by three properties — Permanence, Relevance 
and Community. “ The aesthetic want is not a perishable 
want, which ceases in proportion as it is gratified, 
the aesthetic experience is relevaiit feeling — 1 mean it is 
attached, annexed to the quality of some object. It is 
a common feeling. You can appeal to others to share it 
and its value is not diminished by being shared. These 
three properties of an aesthetic experience show that there 
is an inherent principle of consistency in it. The j)rinciple 
is the metaphysical jjrinciple of non-contradiction. 


(2) Method 


What is Bosanquet’s method in philosophy ? The 
problem of method is one which has attracted the attention 
of the philosox)hers from the earliest times. Every philo- 
sopher has a method of his own. The method, if strictly 
followed, determines the conclusion. One can have an 
idea of the ultimate develoj^ment of a philosopher’s 
speculations only if he cares to understand his method. 
The trend of a thinker’s thoughts is obvious in his method. 


1 iScience and Philosophy, p. 292. 

2 Three Lectures on Aesthetics, pp. 4, 5. 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 


7 


In the history of Philosophy, it was Kant who for 
the first time tried to create a systematic philosophical 
methodology. It is true, his predecessors had methods of 
their own. But none attempted to build a systematic 
methodology. Kant initiated a new kind of philosophy 
which he called Critical Philosophy. “ Its purpose was 
to serve as a propaedeutic or introduction to metaphysics, 
to warn the metaphysician against fallacies of method and 
to set him on the right load. It was iii fact essentially 
a methodology of nieta|)hysi(!s. Having mastered the 
propaedeutic;, Kant assumed that the |)hilosopher would 
go back to his proper work, that of metapliysical specula- 
tion ; and that now, having learnt its proper method, 
metaphysics, reformed and rc'organised, would advance 
with the same sure tread as mathematics and the science 
of nature.” ^ Thus the business of the Critique of Pure 
Reason is to enable us to kee]) reason free from error. ^ 
Kant always tiied to kec'p methodology and metaphysics 
in two watertight compartments. But he failed. “ On 
( his own ) programme, therefore, there were in future to be 
two distinct philosophies : a methodology, which he 
conceived himself to have given to the world in a definitive 
shape, and a substantive philosophy which, guided by 
this methodology, would be able to progress indefinitely. 
But this division, however attractive at first sight, was 
soon found unsatisfying. So far from being definitive, 
the Critique of Pure Reason brotxght the problems of 
methodology into the focus of men’s thought, and gave 
rise to discussions which to some extent diverted them 


> R. Cl. Collingwood, Philosophical Method, p. 20. 

> “ It (Crilujue of Pure Reason) is not a doctrine, but a criticism of pure reason, 
and its speculative value is entirely negative, because it does not enlarge our know- 
ledge, but only oasts light upon the nature of our reason and enables us to keep it 
free from error.”— Philosophy of Kant (Selected and Translated by -T. Watson), 
p. 19 (New Edition). 



8 


BENOY GOPAL RAY 


from metaphysics and for a time made that appear a dead 
subject ; and even Kant himself was not clear in his own 
mind about the relation between the two things, for he 
saw that in one sense critical philosophy was a part of 
metaphysics though in another it was an introduction to 
it.” 1 

Bosanquet does not pass through any systematic 
philosophical methodology. I.iike Bradley, he attacks the 
problem of metaphysics more directly. He says that 
reality is given and knowable. And forthwith he goes to 
know it. But he has a method of his own. It is, as he 
says, the method of expansion. He writes, “ I only know 
in philosophy one method ; and that is to expand all the 
relevant facts taken together, into ideas which approve 
themselves to thought as exhaustive and self-consistent.” ^ 
He finds the materials of philosophy in the facts of life. 
He expands them and tests them >)y ai>plying the standard 
of consistency or non-contradiction. Expansion is the 
keynote of Bosanquet’s method. It is also the nature of 
the real. But it must be remembered that his Absolute 
or the perfect whole never expands. All expansion is 
within the Absolute. A thing is not so humble as it seems 
to be. According to Bosanquet, there is always a yearning 
for the Great in it. He is of opinion that we can know 
reality not in its humble beginnings but in the light of 
what it is when most fully developed. In this respect 
he reverentially follows the truly Platonic tradition. 
There is the call of the Eternal in every tiny bit of reality. 
Every Real tries to transcend its present state of existence 
and the significance of its life lies in this act of transcendence. 

Wherein lies the value of expansion as a philosophical 
method ? The chief merit of the method lies in the fact 
that by it we know a fact not in its humble beginnings 

1 Philosophical Method, pp. 20-21. 

* Three Jjtciures on Aesthetics, p. 3, 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 9 

but in its developed form. Things are what they grow to 
be. How does a thing develop ? It develops from within 
itself because it has the spirit of the ‘ whole ’ in it. The 
conception of the whole is very important in the philosophy 
of Bosanquet. The ‘ whole ’ contains all and everything 
in it has a nisus to it. Thi.s nisus or the urge for trans- 
(^endence is responsible for all progress that occurs within 
<;he whole. 


9—12468 .J. 



CHAPTER IT 


Logic and Reality 

In the previous chapter we described the philosophical 
method of Bosanquet. We propose to devote this chapter 
to sketch the logical structure of reality as (onceived by 
him. So far as the logical structure of the reality is 
concerned, Bosanquet’s conception has its roots in Hegel. 
For Hegel, Logic and Metaphysics are one. ^ They aim 
at the same study. Thought, the subject of Logic is both 
subjective and objective. Again subjective thought and 
objective thought are identical. A very low view of thought 
may be formed if we say that thought is subjective, 
arbitrary and accidental. It has no connection with the 
thing itself. Thoughts according to Kant, although 
universal and necessary categories, are only our thoughts 
-separated from the thing. But a high opinion of thought 
may be formed if we say that thoughts far from being 
merely ours must at the same time be the real essence 
of things. 

Thought, so regarded, is the constructive and unifying 
element of reality. Without it reality would not be 

1 “ Logic coincides with Metaphysics, the seion(‘e of things set and held in 
thoughts, — thoughts accredited able to express the essential reality of things.” 
Wallace, Tht Logic of Hegel, 2nd Ed. p. 45 (Translation). Why does Hegel unify 
Logic and Metaphysics ? Wallace writes, “ The same principle, Thought, appeared 
in both : (Metaphysics and Logic) in the former as a fixed and passive result, showing 
no treices of spontaneity, — in the latter as an activity, with a mere power of passing 
from object to object, discovering and establishing connexions and relations. The 
two sciences were fragments, unintelligible and imtenable, when taken in abstract iso - 

1 ation. This is the justification for Hegel’s imification of Logic and Metaphysics * ’ 

William Wallace, Prolegomena to the study of HegeVs Philosophy, p. 297, 



11 


PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 

anything for us. It is at once the form of the world, of life 
and of reality. In his Logic Bosanquet proceeds in the 
Hegelian way. Like Hegel, he too beheves that knowing 
and Being are identical. Like Hegel, he too holds that 
thought is at the root of reality. Bosanquet begins with 
the question — what is the aim of Logic ? For him, the 
aim of Logic is the construction of reality. “ Psychology 
treats of the course of ideas and feelings ; Logic of the 
mental construction of reality. How does the course of 
my private ideas and feelings contain in it, for me, a world 
of things and persons which are not merely in my mind ?” ^ 
Bosanqiu't answers, “ '("'he whole world, for each of us, 
is our course of conscicnisness, in so far as this is regarded 
as a system of objc'cls which v\(‘ are obliged to think.” ^ 
The phrase. ‘ ol)ligcd to think ' is very important. It 
means the ol)j(“ctivc (»• the real. Knowledge consists of 
what wc arc (tl)lig(‘d to assert m thought. But my world 
of knowledgi' is separate from that of another. How is 
it that they correspond with each other and with reality? 
Bosanquet answers, “ We must learn to regard our separate 
worlds of knowledge as something constructed by definite 
processes, and corresponding to each other in consequence 
of the common nature of these ])rocesses. We know that 
we begin apart. We begin in fact, though not conscious 
of our limits, with feelings and fancies and unorganised 
experiences which giv(‘ us little or no common ground 
and power of co-operation with other people. But as the 
constructive process advfinces, the correspondence between 
our worlds is widened and deepened, and the greater propor- 
tion of what we arc obliged to think is in harmony with 
what other people are obliged to think. Now of course 
this would not be so unless reality, the whole actual system 
in which we find ourselves, were self-consistent. But 

' Essentials, p. (1895). 

* Ibid., p. U. 



12 


BENOY GOPAL 


more than that, it would not be so unless the nature of 
intelligence were the same in every mind.” ^ Thus, we 
arrive at the position that thought is the same in all people 
and it is also the nature of reality. ^ 

Hegel proceeds in a strictly logical way. He begins 
ith the idea. The idea, for him, is the reality. It is 
the Absolute. The minimum, that we can speak of the 
idea is that the idea is Being. “ Pure Being makes the 
beginning : because it is on one hand pure thought, and 
on the other immediacy itself, simple and indeterminate ; 
and the first beginning cannot be mediated by anything 
or be further determined.” ® 

Pure Being is absolutely indeterminate and (sompletely 
empty. This emptiness is the absence of ('verything and 
lu'iu'C it is nothing “ Tliis mere Being, as it is men* 
al>st raction, is tliercfon' the al)solutely lU'gativc* : wliich 
in a similarly iiniiK'diati' aspect is just Notliing. ' B(‘ing 
ami Xothing arc identical and tlu'y pass into each other. 
Hence we have a third thought, viz., the idea of the passagt* 
of Being and Nothing into each other. This is the category 
of Becoming. Being, Nothing and Becoming are the 
tlu'ee categories of Hegelian Logic, the first Hegelian triad. 
This is the dialectical method whieh he employs in his 
system. 

But Bosanquet does not follow the dialectical method 
of Hegel in its minute details. He simply realises the 

lesson of the Hegelian dialectic, ais., the removal of contra- 
diction and creation of harmony. He proceeds from a 

* Esaentlalaf pp. 17-18. 

* In his la«t unhnished book — 2Uie Nature of Mind — Hosatiquet makes much 
of the objectivity of thought. “ Thought is the self-assertion of reality according 
£o its characteristic laws within a complex of psychical matter which may be called 
a mind.’ The Nature of Mind, p. 72. We shall deal with this point in detail in 
(/hapter V. 

Wallace, T/ie Logic of Hegel, p. 158, 

* The Logii‘ of Hegel, p. 101. 



i>rtlLOSOPHY OF BOSAJfQUET 13 

consideration of thought. Thought, for Bosanquet, cannot 
remain content in contradiction. ‘ The essence of thought 
is the nisns towards a whole — to adjustment, to seeing 
things as harmonious.’ ^ J^osanquet is of opinion that 
thought takes the foim of a world and its harmonious 
nature is fully expressed in the ‘ concrete Universal.’ * 
The ultimate tendency of thought is to constitute a world 
or a concrete universal. What is a world ? Bosanquet 
says, “ A world or cosmos is a system of members, such 
that every member being ex hy2>othe.n distinct, nevertheless 

^ Principle^ (AbstmctK of loctiire IT), p. XX. 

* BoHHiiquol rojec<8 tho abstract universal and champions the 

cauHo iA' coiiercto universal. Let us follow bis ('xposition of the argument. 
Bosanquet says that thought has a tendency to generalise. 'J'be search for general 
rules |)r(wup[)oH(*H abNlract urnvcrsals. Hut knowledge' of general rules is defective 
knowledge for it rf^aebes (*ornpletc <'iiiptiness. He writes, “ tbo most general 
knov^ ledge .... inu}^< ob\ emslv' be the loa^t inst nirt ive, and must have its 
< lunav in eoinplele eiiiptmes^.” Principle, p. 31. "Die more general our knowledge 
bt'eiMues, tb(’ les'> is it in foueb with reality'. Tim real is givcqi in experience but 
1 he gt'neraJ knowletlge is a dejiartun* from e\[)erienee. 

lu tlie second place be argues that an abstract universal is superheiab In 
an abstract universab the identity is indifferent to tho varying circumstances or 
differences. But in a concrete universal tho identity is never indifferent to differences . 
On the other hand, tho identity is in and through differences. The identity is domi< 
nant in the determination of circumstances. In an abstract universal, the identity 
will remain what it is even if the differences are other than what they are. Bu^ 
m a concrete universab the identity is what it is only if tlie differences retain their 
character. 

Next he argues that Judgment aiul iiifereiico become impossible without tho 
concrete univer.sul. Oonoreto universal is an identity in differences. Identity 
I'annot exist witbovit differences. Tho tratlitiomvl use of tho theory of identity is 
A is A * Everything is what it is and not another tiling.’ Bosanquet ’s objection 
is tliat the formula, A is A, is not suitable for expressing any Judgment at all. To 
judge is to assert something. Where there is no difference between subject and 
pi'edicate, nothing is asserted, and so there is no judgment. The formula, A is 
A, expresses mere tautology. Tho principle of tautology is not a principle of 
judgment. So Besanquet prefers concrete identity to abstract identity. Abstract 
identity or A is A would make judgmonts impossible. 

Again tho emnerete universal is a system and without a system, inference is 
impossible. Hinco inference is the pa-ssing from knowledge of one entity to knowledge 
of some other, the entities must be connected to justify such a passage. If we 
pass from X to y, X and Y must be systematically connected. X must contah^ 
a clue to Y and hence they must involve a system or a concrete universal. 



14 


BJUJNUi: UUl’AL KAi 


,^oatribut€‘s to the unity of the whole in virtue of the 
oeculiarities which constitute its distinctness. The true 
ogical universal of thought takes the shape of a world 
whose members are worlds. “ The universal in the form of 
a ■w’orld refers to diversity of content within every member, 
as the universal in the form of a class neglects it. Sxich a 
diversity recognised as a unity ; a macrocosm constituted 
jy microcosms, is the type of the concrete universal.”^ 

Thus we see, thought gives us the concrete universal.* 
The question arises, is it a mere subjective creation '! 
Our answer must be in the negative. The Concrett* 

^ FrnKixAi'y ]•. 'M . 

“ [hid., p. 3K, 

* Uni(il<\v oi (ijmiioii that thoujzlxl raiitiut <lo |ustnr to loalitv. ” 11 \\p 
take up anythiug euiisulei't'd rt'al. uo nuittor \n hat it is, wo lind hi it two aspects. 
There arc always two things we can say ahoiit it ; and il we eaniiot sa> both, w<‘ 
have not got reality. There is a ' wliat ’ aiul a ‘ that ’ an existence an<t a rontciit , 
and the two are inseparable. . . . Neither of these aspe<‘ts, if yon isolate it, ean 
taken as real, or indeed in that ease is itself any longer, rhi'v are distinguish- 
able only and not dhdsible. And yet thought seems essentially to ( onsist in their 
division. For thought is clearly, to some extent, at least, ideal. Without an 
idea there is no thinking, and an idea implies the separation of content from exis- 
tence.” Ax)pearence and Reality, p. 14.3 (1930), 

* We submit, Bradley s (Titicism holds tru<* in ea.se of relational or diseiirsiv«‘ 
thought. But Bosaiujuet list's thought m a fomprehensive way. His thought 
is not merely disciiisne hut in t>art intuitiv<*. ** TIh‘ charaxdeiistir emhodiinf^nts 
of thought within hnite life are knowledge (ini'liiding .si'nsi'-pi'rceptHxn), lov(* and 
work or activity.” Fnnciple, j). (>!. Thought, for Ihisarujuet, is not alien to feeling 
and activity. Thought, for him, is tiie life of feeling. Thus he writes, All thought, 
no doubt, has a mediate sick* : hut all eonerete thought lias heeoine imnaxiiate 
no less than mediate. In fa<*t, what the great pliilosophtirs meant by thought, 
the highest possible phase of realisation, i-» much what most i)eoplo moan (so far 
as they grasp the notion of it at all) when they Hp(‘Hk of feeling. For if we admit 
thought to be in part intuitive, a unit> asserted through diversity, there is no longer 
anything to prevent it from reprodueing the c'haraeter of feeling in the sense ol‘ 
immediate apprehension ; an immediate apprehension wdiieh is the totality of a 
mediate discourse,” Principle, p. ho. 'Phouglit, for Bosampiet, is also the essence 
of free activity, 'rhun we see, BoHampiet's thought is at onei' affeetive and voli- 
tional. Herein he <Uffers from lha<He>. Bradley’s reality is sontienei' in its widest 
meaning. His sentience is a harmonious whole wliieh includes within it.s sw^oop 
thought, affection and yolition. 'I’hought is only an elomoni in Bradley’s experience 
or sentiejace which he identifies with reality. 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 


15 


Universal, . for Bosanquot, is the only objective reality. 
Thought, we have seen, knows reality for ^reality itself 
is thought. It is thought and thought alone which can 
reproduce reality without omissions. Bosanquet says, 
“ The true office of thought, we begin to see, is to build 
up, to inspire with meaning, to intensify, to vivify. The 
object which thought in the true sense has worked upon 
is not a relit; of decaying sense, but is a living world, ana- 
logous to a perception of the beautiful, in which every 
thought-determination adds fresh x^oint and deeper bearing 
to every element of the whole.” ’ 

The idea of the C'oncretc Universal leads us to the 
Absolute, the true r(‘ality. The (bnerete Universal is a 
whole, a complete world. Wholeness or Completeness is 
the sign t^f individuality. Individuality cannot lie in 
imperfection or incompleteness. The Concrete ITniversal 
is completed and perfected by itself. Nor does it require 
any cxtraiusuis help for the maintenance of its wholeness 
or ])cjfection. Thus in the truest sense, the Concrete 
Universal as a comphde living world is the only ])erfect 
individual. Rosan<|iic( says, (his individual is (h(‘ 
Ahsoluti'.- 

Tn the Concrete Universal, w'c have got the logical 
structure of realit3^ Let us now see what picture. Logic 
gives us of this real. Jjct us reflect on Bosanquet’s treat- 
ment of Judgment. “ The ultimate subject of the 
f)erceptive Judgment is the real world as a whole, and it 
is of this that, in judging, we affirm the qualities or 

characteristics Every judgment, jierceptive or 

universal, might without altering its meaning be introduced 
by such phrase as ‘Reality is such that’ — .” ^ Bosanquet’s 


^ Principle, p, 58. 

* “ Til tho ultnnato senne .there can bo only one individu^h fend that, 
the individiiaU tho Absolute ” Principle, p. b8, 

» Logic, Vol. T. p. 78 (1st Ed.). 



BBNOY QOPAL RAY 


]i6 

treatment of judgment emphasises the Hegelian principle 
that Reality is one. Whatever exists falls within the one 
Reality. There is nothing outside this Reality. All 
thoughts and things belong to it.* 

In the next place, judgment shows us the reality 
as a whole of parts or an identity in differences. It also 
reveals reality as a system which has unity. Bosanquet 
illustrates this point by means of the disjunctive judgment. 
The disjunctive judgment is the complete form to whi(;h 
the categorical and the hypothetical judgments lead up. 
Categorical and hypothetical judgments culminate in the 
disjunctive type which is a form most adequate to express 
the systematic nature of true experience.^ The hypo- 
thetical has its basis in the categorical in as much as it 
makes an assertion. But it goes beyond the categorical 
by positing the relation of antecedence and consequence. 
Similarly a disjunction involves hypotheticals btit only as 
alternatives. Now what is a disjunction ? By true 
disjimction, Bosanquet means ‘ a judgment in which alter- 
natives falling under a single identity are enumerated, 
and are known in virtue of soine pervading principle to be 
reciprocally exclusive and to be exhaustive.’ ^ Disjunctive 
j udgment, for Bosanquet, does not mean the bare ‘ either — 
or ’ of formal logic. It means a system of mutually 
exclusive forms into which the whole differentiates itself. 

Our result so far is this. Concrete Universal is the 
only true t3T)e of reality. It is the Absolute. The use of 

* Bradley also speaks in the same vein. His reality or the Absolute is one. 
.... The Absolute is one system .... It (is) a single and all-inelusiv© experience 

which embraces every partial diversity in concord.” Appemence mid. Reality, pp . 
146-47 (1908). 

1 See The Philosophical Review, Vol. XXXII, pp. 692-593 (H. 0. Lo<lge ; 
On Bosanquet and the Future of Logic). 

Joseph writes in his Logic, “ Thus disjunctive judgment at once includes and 
goes beyond hypothetical in the same sort of way as hypothetical judgment includes 
and goes beyond Categorical.” Logic, p. 187, 

• VoL I, p. 342 (Ist Ed.). 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 


17 


the word ‘ concrete ’ is technical and requires some 
explanation. For Hegel, the type of universal, exemplified 
by the Platonic Forms, is abstract. For him, the Platonic 
Forms are abstractions from the particular things which 
they characterise. Divorced from the things to which 
they apply, these are nothing at all. Again shorn of the 
universal, a thing would be nothing at all. What then 
is the real ? The real, for Hegel, is a combination of the 
two. It is the whole thing in which the universal and 
the particular are distinguishable but not separable aspects. 
Bosanquet has a strong tendency to support the HegeUan 
conception of reality. He conceives reality or the Absolute 
as a conci'cte universal. For him, it is a whole of wholes. 
Ultimate reality is to be found only in the whole which 
contains all other wholes as its parts. The parts are 
distin<‘t but they contribute to the unity of the whole. 
The parts ai'c not real by themselves. They are real in 
so far as they arc members of whole. Similarly the whole 
is nothing if it be divorced from the parts. The whole 
is the sustaining life of the parts and the parts contribute 
to the unity of the whole. So far, it is quite good. But 
the question arises — Does Bosanquet stick to the conception 
of the concrete Universal ? Our answer is in the negative. 
We shall sec later on ^ that he values only the Absolute, 
the whole and the parts melt into thin air. His Absolute 
or the whole is sufficient by itself. And he degrades the 
parts or the members to the rank of mere elements. 


> Se>o Chapter VIII {The Absolute and the Finite Indinidtial.) 
3— 1245B.J. 



C HAPTER HI 


Criterion of Reality 

In the previous chapter, we have described the logical 
structure of reality. From the structui'e, we pass on 
now to the criterion of reality. Our result so far is this. 
The Absolute is the reality. In the strict sense, it is the 
only individual. Now what is’ the criterion of reality ? 
In the first chapter we have already hinted at Bosanquet’s 
criterion. It is individuality or non -contradiction. 

What is individuality ? It is the formulation of the 
spirit of the whole. When we pass from the contradictory 
and unstable to the stable and satisfactory we have the 
principle of individuality or non-contradiction. Bosanquet 
tells us that the s[)irit of totality always carries us forward. 
Instinctively we move from the unstable and contradictory 
to the stable and satisfactory. How does the principle 
of non-contradiction cover within its sweep the entire 
mass of contradictions ? When different natures claim 
the same place in the same system, we have logical contradic- 
tion. But in non- contradiction, the contradictions are 
resolved and readjusted. The character of the real where 
contradictions are readjusted is negativity. By negativity, 
he does not mean bare negation. Whenever he uses the 
term he adduces a peculiar meaning to it. Negativity, 
for him, is the wholeness or completeness where affirmations 
and negations find their true and proper places. As such, 
it is the spirit of reality. Reality in Bosanquet’s philosophy 
is never an isolated fragment. It is a complete whole 
where every finite item finds its true place and lives in 
^lerfect harmony with the resti 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET in 

Bosanquet and Bradley formulate individuality as 
the criterion of reality and value. “ It is clear,” Bradley 
says, “ that in rejecting the inconsistent as appearance, 
we are applying a positive knowledge of the ultimate 
nature of things. Ultimate reality is such that it does 
not contradict itself ; here is an absolute criterion.” ^ 
And in the concluding pages of A'p'pmranct and Reality 
he asserts definitely, “ Our criterion is individuality or 
the idea of complete system.” * 

Bosanquet makes individuality the title of his first 
course of Oifford Lectures. “ 1 chose individuality,” he 
says in his preface, “ as the clue to my subject, because 
it seemed to be the principle which must ultimately 
determine the nature of the real and its constituents, of 
what is complete and self-contained and of what approxi- 
mates, or belongs to such a reality.” Almost in Bradley’s 
w'ords, he too suggests that the standard is positive non- 
contradiction, developed through comprehensiveness and 
consistency. The supreme principle of reality, for him, 
is wholeness or completeness. ” The appeal to the whole 
is the same thing with the principle otherwise known as 
the principle of non -contradiction.” ^ Again ” it is all 
one whether we make non- contradiction, wholeness or 
individuality our criterion of the ultimately real.” ® 

According to Bosanquet, individuality is not opposed 
to uniformity. 1’hc essence of individuahty is identity 
in. difference.* The notion that uniformity excludes 


^ AppeOrruticf! (ind liectlUt/^ p. 130 (1910), 

“ Ibid., p. 542. 

^ Principle, p. vi. 

^ Primiple, p, 44. 

* Principle, p. 08. 

• According to Bosanquot, identity cannot exist without diffei-onces. Thus 
lie writes, “ An identity is a universal, a meeting-point of differences ai^ therefore 
always in a sense concrete .... An identity is the element of continuity that 
persists through differences." A«»oy« and Addresses, pp. 106-06. 



^0 GOPAL 

variably is erroneous. An identity in diiference is also 
the essence of a true uniformity. It does not mean a 
meaningless repetition of resembling things, but the 
coherence of differences in a systematic whole. The 
spirit of such a whole is the true universal. Its true 
nature is expressed in a connected system of elements. 

Thus we see, individuality is Bosanquet’s criterion of 
reality. The next step, he takes, is to call it the criterion 
of value. Values play an important part in his philosophy. 
Hence we consider it worth while to linger on the subject 
of values. Value, worth and goodness are names for the 
same character of objects. Now-a-days, however, the 
terms — worth and goodness have -turned obsolete in English 
usage. Bosanquet regards value as a category. He writes, 
“ Goodness then is not giyen in experience as one kind 
of thing you can point out. It is a feature attaching more 
or less to many such ; we cannot exclude the possibility 
that in a sense it may attach to all. It is.... a 
category of which at least a great many objects present the 
character, but which is itself present as a whole in none.” ^ 

Are values subjective or objective ? Bosanquet has 
a strong tendency to classify them as objective though he 
does not efface the hold of the subjective on them. He 
writes, “ Value, worth or goodness is a certain quality of 
objects hona fide belonging to them, but especially revealed 
in their manifestations within the attitude of human 
minds.” ^ It will be convenient here to compare his 
view with that of Prof. Alexander. Alexander says that 
a value emerges, only when a mind and an object are 
connected by t^he relation of compresence. Value resides 
neither in the mind nor in the object. It is a new quality 
that emerges when mind is compresent with the object. 
Bosanquet however is not willing to assign such a 

^ Some Suggestions in Ethics, p. 51. 

* Ibid., p. 58. 



l*lllJ.OSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 2l 

Subjective-objective position to values. He is inclined to 
believe that values are revelations of objective characters. 
But they are manifested within human minds. 

Bosanquet says that value and existence go together. 
“ Whatever fills a place and occupies thought and feehng 
must ipso facto, however slightly present a value.” ^ 
There can hardly be existence without value. When we 
speak of virtue as having value, it is never virtue in the 
abstract to which the value is referred. The value is 
referred to the actual virtuous conduct. So when we 
say, health has value, it is not the concept health but 
health exhibited in organisms, that has value. But 
here we should remember a significant fact about 
Bosanquet’s philosophy. Bosanquet, we shall see later,* 
jays undue emphasis on the fact that the finite individuals 
have got no real existence. Only the Absolute exists 
in the proper sense of the term. So interpreted, the 
Absolute alone is valuable. But Bosanquet is eager to 
save the ‘ what of an individual.’ Here we face an anomaly. 
If the ‘ what ’ of individual is to live, it must live in the 
‘ that.’ Hence Bosanquet cannot repudiate the individuals. 
If value and existence go together and if we believe that 
the abstract concepts of beauty, goodness, virtue or health 
cannot float in the air, we must confess that values inhere 
in objects. If value is conserved, the individual too is 
conserved for it is only in the latter that the former lives, 
moves and has its being. But for Bosanquet, only the 
values survive in the Absolute. What is the truth about 
the relation of actuahty and value ? I^et us take the 
values of art. It will be convenient here to express the 
views of Taylor. H^e expresses the relation in an admirable 
passage—” What we really regard as so very good is beauty 


» Ibid., p. 65. 

* See Clxapter XI. Alsu Cliapter VIU (tor detaUeU discussion). 



22 


liENOY (JOPAI. RAY 


as constituting the characteristic form of the beautiful 
thing, beauty as existing in the poem, or symphony or 
portrait, not beauty as a concept, detached from the 
individual things of beauty in which it is embodied.” ^ 
IVuth, beauty and goodness to which we always ascribe 
values are in all cases concreted. 

Values are always concrete. But can we assign a 
sure criterion to value ? It is often argued, that value is 
a matter of feeling. As such it cannot have any standard. 
Bosanquet is of opinion that there can be no value apart 
from feeling. But having feeling we can surely test it. 
“ In truth the education of feeling is the most important 
of all education — teaching people to like and dislike rightly 
— as the Greeks knew ; and this means that there is a 
standard.” ^ 

Value involves satisfaction.' That which has the 
property of satisfactoriness can satisfy human want. It 
alone has worth or value. Again satisfaction depends on 
the logical stability of the whole. The mind obtains more 
satisfaction in an experience which is more real. Bosanquet 
adheres to Plato’s conclusion that ‘ objects of our likings 
possess as much of satisfactoriness — which we identify 
with value — as they possess of reality and trueness.’ Thus, 
satisfactoriness involves truth and leality. And this is 
a logical standard and a standard involving the whole.* 
While establishing individuality as the criterion of value, 
Bosanquet fights against the use of teleology in the ordinary 
sense of the term. He criticises it as a criterion of val\>e. 
If by teleology we mean direction by a Supreme Mind 
outside the universe, we are sure, such a teleology cannot 
‘ explain ’ the universe or its value. The universe as a 
whole is self-directing. In other words, individuality or 


^ The Faith of a Moralist . p, 43 (Sorirs 1). 

* Principle, (Ab^trartw of LooturcH), l/ccturo VITI , 

* Prificiple, p. 317. 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET SS 

completeness is the only criterion of value. Bosanquet 
does not wholly repudiate teleology. He is willing to 
accept it if it be purged of its ordinary meaning. He 
says, “ If it (teleology) is to retain a meaning,, it must 
abandon the whole analogy of finite contrivance and 
selection and must fall back on the characteristics of value 
which, apart from sequence in time, and from selected 
purpose, attach to the nature of totality which is perfection. 
In this transition, the principle of purposiveness, of a 
nature imperative on eveiy element of a whole, expands- 
into the principle of individuality or positive non-contra- 
diction.” ^ This is ideal teleology. 

Thus we have arrived at the principle of individuality, 
the criterion of reality and value. But difficulties arise 
when Bosanquet makes an application of it. Every finite 
value is tested by the criterion of the whole. But can 
any value-judgment be passed on the whole ? Is the 
universe good or batl ? Bosanquet says that it is perfection 
and the standard of all goodness and value. He is not 
willing to value it though he values all else by it. Surely 
the whole has value. But he does not show us any way 
how to evaluate the whole. Bosanquet might have avoided 
this difficulty if he had said — The value of the finite is 
judged by the value of the whole and the latter is judged 
by means of itself alone. Just as light dispels darkness 
and expresses itself, so individuality is its own criterion 
as well as that of finite values. The whole does 
not require any criterion other than itself. The complete 
individuality cannot have a standard that is outside 
of itself, for in that case its individuality would 
be gone. Indeed the whole has nothing outside of 
itself. 

1 Prinoipte, pp. 126-27. 

W« refer to teleology in connejfion with “ time*,” See Chapter IX {Tkt 
/{btoIwUi.miVhange), 



24 


BENOY GOPAL RAY 


Next arises the difficulty about the question of 
satisfaction. With great enthusiasui and approval 
Bosanquet introduces the argument of Plato by which 
he leads up to the coiuteption of a perfection of positive 
pleasure. The principle of the argument is thi.s — “ that 
positive pleasure and all satisfoction, as distinct from an 
intensity of feeling which there is reason to suspect of being 
illusory, depends on the character of logical stability of 
the whole inherent in the objects of desire, and that what 
in this sense is more real, that is, more at one with itself 
and the whole is also the experience in which the mind 
obtains the more durable and coherent satisfaction, and 
more completely realises itself. This consideration 
prescribes the nature of the ultimate good or end, which 
is the supreme standard of value. . . ^ J. E. McTaggart 
raises a query. “ One step in this argument then is that 
satisfaction is value and that nothing else is value. 
Now if the supporters of this position be confronted 
with Kant who declares that other things have value 
besides satisfaction or with Bentham who maintains that 
nothing but pleasure has . value, what would they do ? 
They would not agree with them. But could they argue 
with them ? ^ Here we like to suggest that some argumen- 
tation is possible. Value cannot be gross pleasure for this 
is variable. It is subject to change and it can be modified 
by environments. - A criterion which is always variable 
is not a true criterion. Kant declares that there are other 
things which have vahie besides satisfaction. But such 
an assertion can only be made when the term satisfaction 
is taken in a narrow sense. If by satisfaction we mean 
something which is based on the very nature of reality 
which is individuality, surely satisfaction covers the entire 
range of values. 

1 Principle^ pp. 298-99. 

2 Criticfi^l Noticen, Mind 'N. 1912), p. 42^, 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 28 

But here a fresh difficulty arises. Value is satisfactiiHi. 
A thing is valuable for me when I find satisfaction in it* 
But is satisfaction dependent on my feeling ? Bosanquet 
would answer the question in the negative. If it were 
dependent on my feeling, then my value-judgment would 
differ from that of another. Thus we see, satisfaction 
is something which is universal. It is based on the “ amount 
of reality and trueness ” of the thing. In other words, 
Bosanquet places satisfaction in an abstract plane which 
has no concern with the feeling tone of the individual. 
But the question crops up. Can there be any value with- 
out feeling ? We answer it in the negative. Bosanquet 
himself says that there can be no value apart from feeling. 
But whenever he comes to enunciate a suitable standard 
of value, he seems to be forgetful of this particular truth. 
His ‘ satisfacttion ’ becomes highly abstract and intellec- 
tualistic in character. 

Lastly, we venture to make one more remark on 
Bosanquet's criterion. The chief merit of Bosanquet lies 
in his formulation of individuality as the criterion of reality 
ami value. Indivkhiality is indet^l the surest criterion. 
We accept it as a necessity of reason. Life and Science 
vindicate this principle. In its formulation he is faultless. 
But in its application, he is perhaps forgetful of the real 
character of the formula. Bradley, we have seen, takes 
up. individuality as the criterion of value and reality* 
But he starts from “ the visionary and impracticable 
standpoint of an absolute experience.” It seems, he 
defines the Absolute on the basis of an empty principle 
of individuality and from that definition condemns the 
phenomenal world as “ irrational appearance.” The result 
of such a procedure is harmful to his whole philosophy. 
In his philosophy, no attempt is made to determine the 
place of each aspect of reality in an articulated system. 
The Hegelian method teaches us one great lesson. It 

4— 1248B.J. 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


teaches us how to pass step by step from the lowest category 
to the highest and to show that the various phases of 
reality form a graded system. It seems, Bradley is fully 
aware of the advantages of such a method. He styles his 
Absolute as an individual and a System.^ Again he says 
that a complete philosophy would be “a systematic 
account of all the regions of appearance, for it is only the 
completed system which in metaphysics is the genuine 
proof of the principle.” ^ “ Prom the space and atoms 

of matter to the highest life of the self-conscious self, we 
can perceive a scale of individuality and self-containedness.” 
But it is a matter of great regi:et that Bradley does not 
act up to this conviction. 

We have seen, Bosanquet starts with the Hegelian 
‘ concrete universal.’ From this we may legitimately 
hope that he will determine the place of each aspect in 
the scheme of the real. He will measure every sphere of 
experience by his criterion and give it a rank according 
to its merits and defects. We know, the concrete universal 
is a whole of wholes. Ultimate and complete reality 
is to be found in the whole which contains all other wholes 
as its parts. The parts are not completely real. There 
are degrees of truth and reality. According to him, 
individuality is most completely present in the Absolute. 
All other things possess it in a lesser degree. Again, 
“ there are real differences in things corresponding to the 
degree in which they are permitted or permit themselves 
to be dominated by the form or idea of the whole.”® 

But the question again arises. Does Bosanquet cling 
to this view ? Our answer again is in the negative. When- 
ever he discusses the relation of the Absolute to finite 
individuals, he forgets the true spirit of the formula of 


^ Appea/ranoe and RecdUy, p. 144 (191«). 

• Ibid., p. 456 (1916). 

• See Muirhead, The Platonic Tradition in Anglo-Sa»on Philosophy, p. 417. 



PttitOSOPHY OF BOSANQUEt 2? 

individuality. It seems, he reveii® to the position of 
Bradley. Like Bradley, he too defines the Absolute on 
an empty principle of individuality and condemns the 
world of phenomena as inconsistent appearance.. The 
finite individuals are reduced to passing phenomena. They 
become mere elements and require transformation.* 


* Wo shall have occasion to speak more on it in Chapter VIII. 



C HAFfER IV 
Nature * 


So far we have found that the reahty, for Bosanquet, 
is the Absolute. In this chapter we pass from the Absolute 
to nature. How do we pass from the Absolute to nature ? 
This question will engage our attention later. Let us 
first discuss whether nature cati exist without mind. Is 
it something that falls outside all minds ? Unfortunately 
Bosanquet’s entire treatment of nature is full of irreconcil- 
able remarks. His theory of nature involves two main 
strands, but they cannot be integrated. In his delineation 
of nature, Bosanqiu't re{)udiates both naturalism and 
pan-psychism. We shall see later on that Bosanquet’s 
real intention is not to vindicate the claims of naturalism. 
But he cannot altogether avoid the doctrine of pan-psychism. 

Let us dwell on Bosanquet’s first set of assertions. 
Bosanquet is of opinion that it is nature that moulds minds 
and he devotes two lectures in the second Gifford Volume 
to this theme. He speaks of nature as purely external. 
There is an externality “ at first purely external ” — and 
“ unmodified and pristine externality.” ^ In another 
place he writes, “ The world comes first ; it works towards 
finding a centre, and in this working the types of our 
thinking and experience arise.” ^ Somewhat later he 
remarks, “ Finite consciousness and the finite self come 
late, on the top of immense stores of unconscious mechanism 


In the writings of Besanquet, nature and externality are used in the same 
0O11SO. Body is a part of © 3 cternality. 

^ Value and Destiny, pp. 83 , 84 . 

* Principle, p. 219 . 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 


2d 

and adaptation, which are to all appearance its pre- 
condition.” ^ We cite more passages below to add tO 
the force of those just quoted.^ From these quotations 
it is clear that nature or externality can exist in its own 
right. Mind arises out of nature and is a late comer. 
Mind is nature when the latter reaches a certain level of 
organisation. 

But there is another vein of assertion. Bosanquet 
believes that ‘ nature is plastic and responsive to mind.’ ® 
In another place he writes, “ The content of mipd is the 
content of nature because nature is the instrument or 
clement of the Al)solute by which the mind’s own ‘ nature ’ 
is communicated to it. On the other hand, the content 
of iiatui'c is the content of mind, because it is only in the 
sphere of mind that nature reveals, to begin with, anything 
at all, and a fortiori, that she reveals the possibilities of 
life ajid spirituality that arc shut up within her.” ^ Again 
in another place he writes, “ Nature thus exists only 
through finite mind. But finite minds, again exist only 
through nature.” ® Here we see Bosanquet is not willing 
to affirm that nature can exist in its own right. Nature 
is as much dependent on mind as the latter is on the former. 
In other words, he takes recourse to such a view as 
makes nature and minds inter-dependent. 

^ Prhmpk>, p. 2liK 

2 ** Tho solf, itself, draws its inaiorial i'roin iiaiuro and even as subject, .... 
is making use of that material to give itself the feeling of self-hood — Principle^ 
p, 369. “ Mind is tho meaning of externality, which under certain conditions 

oouoentrates in a new focus of meaning, which is a new hnite m i n d,** Pfitwiple^ 
p. 220. 

Tlie lecture on ‘ Bodily Basis of Mind * (Gifford, Volume I) contains many such 
passages. This lecture moved Dr. McTaggart to observe, “ Almost every word 
that Dr. Bosanquet has written about the relation of mind and matter might have 
been written by a complete materialist.*’ 

® Principk^ p. 366. 

* PrMoipfe, p. 367. 



BENOr GOPAL MAY 


30 

Quito ill the same spirit, he repudiates pan-psychism. 
He is of opinion that if pan-psychism be adopted, “ all 
externality is dissolved away.” ^ He says, “ It (pan- 
psychism) transforms the complementariness of mind 
and nature, on which as it would seem, their inseparability 
depends, by an analysis of one into the other such as 
wholly to destroy the speciality of function for which the 
one is needed by the other. Why insist on reducing to 
a homogeneous type the contributions of all elements to 
the whole ? What becomes of the material incidents of 
life — of our food, our clothes, our country, our own bodies 'i 
Is it not obvious that our relation to' these things is essential 
to Unite being, and that if they are in addition subjective 
psychical centres their subjeidive psychical quality is oiu' 
which so far as realised would destroy their function and 
character for us ? ^ Thus he denounces pan-psychism 
but we shall see later on that he cannot altogether avoid 
the theory. 

Bosanquet is of opinion that nature conditions mind.** 
In what sense does he propose that nature is the condition 
of mind ? According to Bosanquet, it is nature that 
moulds mind. Here the meaning is clear. Conditioning 
may be taken in the sense of moulding. What is moulded 
is finite minds and it is nature which makes them what 
they are. “ We are now compelled to accept as fact,” 
he says, “ a state of the globe prior to the existence of 
human race, or even of organic hfe....”^ This 


1 Principle^ p. 363. 

* im., p. 363. 

® The external world is ** the condition and the complement of spiritual being.” 
Frinc^fe, p. 319. 

* Logic, Vol. II (2nd Ed.), p. 218. 

Bradley is not as sure as Bosanquet in speaking of a wholly pre>organic world 4 
“ Outside of this boundary (range of our intellects),’* he writes, “ there is no 
Nature. We may employ the idea of a pre-organic time, or of a physical world 
£rom which all sentience has disappeared. But. with the knowledge that we possess# 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSA^QUET Si 

pre-brganic world sets the conditions of mind. But in 

another place Bosanquet .observes, “ Nature exists through 

finite mind.” Nature is nature only through finite mind. 

How can we reconcile these two opposed assertions ? 

Something by way of reconciliation may conveniently 

be suggested here. It is true, nature or externality is the 

first thing to appear. From nature grew mind. So far 

as the origin is concerned, externality is prior to mind. 

We can think of a time when there was no mind. Only 

nature remained. In course of time, a certain type of this 

(externality grew into mind. It then faces nature as its 

environment. In this connexion it should be remembered 

that the environment does not remain foreign to its centre, 

viz., the mind. Mind is soaked in the environment. Prior 

to the evolution of mind, nature existed in its own 

independence. But after its evolution, nature is inseparably 

(H)nnected with the mind. An intimate relation ensues 

between them. Before the birth of mind, nature is the 

conditioner of mind but after its birth, it is its complement. 

But -we shall at onc(i rule out the suggestion for, in the 

% 

next ])aragraph. W(‘ shall see that Bosancpiet’s nature 
can never exist without mind. 

Here arises a fr(\sh ])oint concerning the (ionditioning 
of minds. I^et us consider the remark of Bosanquet, 
“ If you ask what in nature is not; mind, you can only 
answer, the fragmentary or disconnected qvu fragmentary 
or disconnected.” ^ How can a fragmentary something 
mould anything ? How can a disconnected nature mould 
mind which, for Bosanquet is a whole ? Bosanquet may 

wo cannot, even in a relative sense, take thi.s result as universal. It could hold only 
with respect to those organisms which we know, and, if carried further, it obvionedy, 
hecomea invalid. And again such a truth, where it is true, can be merely pheno. 

menal A nature without sentience is, in short, a mere oonstruotion 

for science and it possesses a very partial reality.” Appearani!i> and Realitjf. 
pp. 244-45 (1930). 

> Principle, p. 367. 



32 BBNOY aOPAL RAY 

give us this reply " He would very likely reply (as he 
insists in the 2nd Gilford Volume) that the nature which 
moulds our minds is a ‘ second nature ’ already shot 
through with volitions.” ^ “ Every jot and tittle o£ this 

world is a volitional transformation of a relatively natural 
fact.” ® This perhaps reveals the real intention of 
Bosanquet. Nature that moulds minds is not simply 
the fragmentary and disconnected. It is volitional ly 
transformed, connected and unified nature. In other words, 
it is not mere nature but nature-mind that moulds minds. 

So, we come to grasp the real thesis of Bosanquet. 
Nature can never exist without mind. Nature is always 
hyphened with mind. He is no less emphatic than Bradley 
in insisting that nature by itself is a mere abstraction. 
When Bosanquet admits that nature which moxilds minds 
is nature already shot through with volition, is he not 
driven to accept the truth of pan-psychism, which he 
violently repudiates ? Wo submit, Bosanquet eaniiot 
altogether avoid the tinge of pan -psychism in his treatment 
of nature. 

Next the (|uestion arises. Why does Bosanquet 
speak of an “ unmodified and ])ristine externality ? ” What 
can we say about the first set of assertions which we quoted 
above ? Some critics suggest that Bosanquet writes such 
passages, when he is in a realist mood. But when his 
realist mood is in abeyance, he insists on the view that 
nature without mind is nothing. We believe, it is going 


1 Soe Mind, Vol. XLIII, (1934). p. 320. 

* Value and Destiny, p. 113. 

• Tn the chapter on Nature, (Appearanet and Reality, Ch. XXTI), Brarlley 
discusses the independent status of nature. For him, nature cannot exist in its 
own right. He emphatically affirms that nature by itself has no reality. It must 
be related to finite mind. What lies beyond finite centres is, properly speaking, 
not nature at all. Throughout the chapter, Bradley calls nature an appearance. 
‘‘ It exists only as a form of appearance, within the Absolute. In its isolation 
from that whole of feeling and experience it is an untrue abstraction. . . , 

fbid., p. 259 (1930), 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 33 

too far. It is very diflficult to account for Bosanquet’s 
vacillating treatment of nature. However one thing 
about Bosanquet’s philosophy is certain. He never likes 
to end in naturalism and materialism. Nor does he end 
in realism. We may make at least one remark in his 
favour. We have seen, there are two distinct sets of asser- 
tions . in his philosophy of nature. The first set affirms 
that nature can exist apart from mind. It can exist in 
its own right. The second set affirms that nature and 
mind are inter- dependent. The second set reveals his 
real view while the first one is used only by way of discussion. 

Before we close the chapter, we must discuss the 
question — How do we pass from the Absolute to nature ? 
ThivS is a knotty problem which Bosanquet cannot solve. 
Bosanquet does not explicitly account for this transition. 
Hegel tried to solve the problem but he too hesitated and 
fumbled over the transition from idea to nature.^ For 
Hegel, nature is the opposite of the idea. It is the idea 
gone out of itself into otherness. Hence nature begins 
with that which is most mindless or irrational. In the 
succeeding stages of nature, mind or reason reawakens. 
Thus we see, in his Logic, Hegel begins with the idea. 
Here the idea is in and for itself. The Philosophy of 
Nature is the science of the idea in its otherness. The 
Philosophy of Mind is the science of the idea come back 
to itself, out of that otherness. ^ Can we interpret 
Bosanquet in a Hegelian light? Like Hegel, Bosanquet 
too cannot explain the transition from the Absolute to 


* As to the actual transition from iilea to nature, Hegel says, “ Since the idea 
posits itself as the absolute unity of the pure notion and its reality, and consequently 
assumes the form of immediate being, it is, as the totality of this form, nature.” 
W. T. Harris, ffegeVs Tjogic, p. 398 (1895), Translation. 

The thought of the idea contains and involves the thought of immediacy. 
The thought of immediacy is the thought of givenness, or externality. And this 
thought of givenness is the thought of nature. But critics are of opinion that this 
deduction is invalid or at least insufficient. 

• Wallace, The Logic of Hegel, 2nd Ed., pp. 28-29. 

5— 1246B.J. 



34^ BENOY GOPAL RAY 

nature. We have already remarked ^ that Bosanquet 
does not follow the dialectic of Hegel in its minute details. 
But he always accepts the truth of the Hegelian dialectic. 
It cannot be said that Bosanquet treats nature as the 
Absolute in its otherness. All that can be said about 
Bosanquet’s nature is this : Nature is not an independent 
reality. Apart from the context of the whole, it is nothing. 
Minds arise from nature. But we can never think of nature 
apart from mind. Again minds that arise from nature 
transform nature. Nature is complete in our minds, each 
of which draws its content from some particular range 
of nature. All details of nature, are elicited into mental 
foci and pass through them into the complete experience 
which we call the perfect whole or the Absolute.^ 


» Chapter II. 

• Bosanquet ’s Absolute is “a perfect union of mind and nature, 

absorbing the world of nature by and through the world of selves,” — See Prindpl* 

p as?. 



CHAPTER V 
Mind ^ 

From the previous chapter we learn that mind arises 
from nature. But it must be remembered that nature 
which gives birth to mind is not mere nature but nature- 
mind. Nature, apart from mind, is nothing. 

What is mind ? At the very outset it is worth while 
making a remark on the last work of Bosanquet. He 
intended to write a comprehensive work on Tkov^ht 
Consci<yusness and U niverse. It was his intention to 
state in the book the full nature of mind and thought. 
But unfortunately death snatched him away. He could 
not live to finish the already-begun book. However Helen 
Bosanquet, the wife of our philosopher, has published the 
“ Three chapters on . the nature of mind.” It wiU be 
our business here to develop the hints and indications 
that Bosanquet has left to us in these three chapters. 
Bosanquet discusses what a mind is for the biographer. 
In the first instance, the biographer thinks of mind as a 
consciousness. It has contents. Bosanquet says that the 
biographer or the novelist is not prima facie wrong when 
he argues that mind is consciousness and that it has ample 
contents. The biographer considers his hero as a conscious- 
ness. This point of view might develop ill or well. 
Bosanquet writes, “ It would develop ill if it led us to insist 
on consciousness as the receptacle or container ; in which 
all the contents of a mind can be surveyed like the furniture 
of a room or the picture which is a panorama. It would 
nevertheless, in my judgment, develop well if it caused us 
to consider the mind, though far from wholly present 

Mind, Soul and Self in the same »oi»e. 


i Botfanquet usea 



36 . BENOY GOPAL RAY 

at any moment in or to explicit consciousness, yet as grow- 
ing by what it feeds on, and having its unity rather in 
the interrelation and interdependence of its constituents 
than in any conceivably separable unifying principle 
brought in from ‘ out of doors ^ For the biographer 
the man is what he can find in him. He finds in the man 
a unity. He ascribes this unity not to subject or object 
“ but simply to what it is, a something analogous to a 
pleasurable or painful being.” ® In the next place the 
mind is always studied by the biographer in relation to 
the external world and bodily habits. The external world 
serves as a sort of background. .The hero of the novelist 
lives, moves and has his being against this background. 
As he proceeds, the novelist deals with the body and its 
habits. He does not raise any question as to whether 
mind is founded on the body. But he knows that it is 
through the body as instrument that he has to bring to 
light the facts of mind. Bosanquet gathers from the 
biographer or the novelist the truth that mind is at least 
consciousness. And it is a principle of unity. 

How is mind related to its objects ? Bosanquet does 
not favour the time-honoured distinction between a content 
and an object. In the Brentano-Meinong account of mind, 
the content of thought is separated from the object of 
thought. Bosanquet is unwilling to accept this separation. 
He affirms, “ In a, common sense perception we are not 
aware of anything like this separation between content 
and object. The object is clothed in its content and what 
we say of it, we say of the single thing before us, not of 
a something remote which is like a something else at home 
which we have existentially in our minds.” ® According 


1 Three Chapters on the Nature of Mind, p. 9. 

* Ibid,, p. 19. 

» Ibid., pp. 60-61. 

In the 3rd chapter of the book Nature of Mind Bosanquet criticises Riisseirs 
conception of mind and afiarms his view that “ thought is the control of the mental 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSAKQUET 


37 


to him, in an act of sensation the mind and its object do 
not stand apart from each other. Mind is not like a 
thing that faces other things. Mind and its objects are 
continuous. In this respect Bosanquet’s view is more 
logical than that of a neo-realist. A neo-realist (Alexander) 
draws a sharp line between mind and its objects. In 
reahty, perhaps, no such line can be drawn. When we 
are aware of an object, we are aware of it as a unity. 
This unity involves the life of mind. Bosanquet explains 
it by a homely example. “ What I see when I look at 
a blue thing has unity and life. Its parts, that is, though 
varied, confirm, support and determine one another by 
explicit ‘ cornpresence.’ It pulsates with feeling, a 
common tone, which involves the presence of a whole 
all at once, reinforcing and modifying every part by the 
simultaneous effects of all. What does a unity of this 
kind consist in ? .... Surely that of consciousness 

and no other. Blue, then, while it retains the characters 
of blue, must have in it the life of mind. . . .” ^ 

What is the typical and fundamental act of mind ? 
It is thought. But what is thought ? “ If thought is the 

control of the mind by the object, and this control is the 
act par excellence of the mind, then the act par excellence 
of the mind is not its own. That is to say, thought 
rather governs consciousness than is an act of conscious- 
ness.” 2 Such an account of thought seems to be 
paradoxical but this is what Bosanquet wants to say. He 
writes, “ Thought is the self-assertion of reahty according 


process by the real object.” He sympathises with Bussell when he holds that 
thought is closely connected with “ habit and memory as a development of mnemio 
caxisation.” But Bosanquet wants Bussell to say more. Thus he writes. I 
want him to recognise that in and through the working of anemic ca^mn 
thought is the control of mental process by the real object. —Nature of Mxnd, 

^%he DisHnetwn between Mind and ite Objecte. pp. 32. 33 (Adamson 
Lecture)* 

• Three Chapters on the Nature of Mind^ p. 59. 



GOPAL MV 


38 ^ 

to its characteristic laws withiii a complex of psychical 
matter which may be called a mind.” ^ 

Here arises a query of considerable importance. 
Hitherto we have found that thought is the central function 
of mind. It is also at the bottom of reality.^ Thought 
is both subjective and objective. The passages which 
we hilve quoted above tend to make much of the objectivity 
of thought. We have seen, Bosanquet goes so far as to 
say that thought is the control of the mind by the real 
object. Why does Bosanquet indulge in such assertions 
as quoted above ? The reason is not far to seek. He 
never likes to treat thought as a m.ere weapon or instrument 
of mind by means of which alien objects are known. 
Always he abhors that idea. He considers the knowledge- 
situation in which the mind and its object enter as a system 
and such a system is thought. But it should be borne 
in mind that thought is not merely the character of the 
system but of the members which constitute the system. 
Bosanquet warns us not to lose sight of this truth. This 
is why he makes so much of the objectivity of thought. 

Objectivity of thought reveals an interesting point. 
According to Bosanquet, mind or self is always a mediated 
reality. The reality of mind^is conditioned by the world 
with its objects. Mind or self, for our philosopher, is 
always relational, mediated and objectifiable. This view 
of Bosanquet is sharply opposed to that of the Advaita 
thinkers of India. The Advaita thinkers consider self® 
as an ultimate, non-relational consciousness which is 
necessarily unobjeotifiable and immediate. 

So far we have described the general nature of mind 
and its relation to objects. Now let us turn to a new 
feature of mind. We know, nature moulds minds, but 

» Ibid., p. 72. 

• See Chapter II. 

* Advaita thinkers draw a line of demarcation between Self and Mind. Bd't 
Bosanquet uses them in the scune sense. 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 39 

mind also moulds nature. ‘ Being moulded ’ and 
‘ moulding ’ — ^these two acts are simultaneous. On the 
one hand, mind is being moulded by nature and on the 
other, it is moulding nature. How can mind, mould 
its environment ? Bosanquet explains it by means of 
the secret or miracle of will. Mind can always transform 
things for the better. “ The secret lies in the fact that 
mind has always more in it than is before it. Or, in other 
words, the universe is all connected. So for every given 
situation there is a larger and more effective point of 
view than that given, and because the spirit of the whole, 
in the shape of some special want or question, is always 
in the mind, it can always, in principle, find clues to new 
possibilities in every given situation.” ^ Thus we see, 
mind can mould nature because it has in it the spirit of the 
whole. The change which we make in the world is “ the 
reshaping of our world by itself under the influence of the 
nisus of mind to the whole.” Institutions arise under 
the influence of this nisus of mind. Bosanquet is of opinion 
that institutions come out of natural facts. Thinking 
will elicits them. Society and civilization arise out of 
primary externality for the thinking will is active in it. 
What results, then, do we get when mind as a will moulds 
circumstance ? The results are the various human ways 
of living embodied in institutions. Here it may be 
conveniently remarked that this conception of Bosanquet 
has its roots in Hegel’s view of olqective mind. ® 


' “ Being moulded, on the one hand, and moulding (urcurnstance on the other — 
corning alive as a world, but as a world reshaping itself and transcending itself 
through striving towards the unity which is completeness — are the double aspect 
of the Soul or Self. . . . Value ^ pp. 129-30. 

* Value^ p. XXIV. 

® In the Philosophy of Mind, Hegel at first discusses the nature of subjective 
mind and then passes on to the objective mind. “ An intelligent will, or a practical 
reason, (is) the last word of the psychological development. But a reason which 
is practical, or a volition which is intelligent, is realised by action which takes regular 
shapes, and by practice which transforms the world. The theory of objective 
mini delineates the new form which nature assumes under the sway of intelligence 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


How does Bosanquet discuss the problem of the 
relation between mind and body ? Like all other philo- 
sophers, Bosanquet too tackles this vexed problem. He 
rejects interaction for it is not possible to separate mind 
and body from each other. For him, mind is neither 
separate from the body nor, as the materialist holds, a 
mere by-product of matter. Mind or self is the centre or 
awakening of a determinate world. We should not think 
of mind as a spiritual substance operating ah extra upon 
the material body. According to Bosanquet, mind is 
only the interpretation or appreciation of the body. He 
accepts “ the conscious process aa the essence of a certain 
kind of physical process, and as covered by its physical 
cost in the body’s balance-sheet.” ^ 

But the question arises, is it an explanation or a 
statement of facts ? We might call mind an interpretation 
or appreciation of the body. Still the persistent question 
remains— How are the physical series and the psychical 
series connected with each other ? How is the inter- 
pretation connected with the ’ physical process ? Again, 
what do we mean by the expression, interpretation of 
the body ? Bosanquet is not willing to call the inter- 


and will. That intellectual world realises itself by transforming the physical into 
a social and political world, the given natural conditions of existence into a freely - 
iiLstituted system of life, the primitive struggle of kinds for subsistence into the 
ordinances of the social state. Given man as a being possessed of will an<l intelli- 
gence, this inward faculty, whatever be its degree, will try to impress itself on nature 
and to reproduce itself in a legal, a moral and social world.” Wallace, H eqeV 
Philosophy of Mind, p. xxviii. 

* Principle, p. 197. 

As to the relation between mintl and body, Bosanquet writes, “ The view of 
this relation which we should favour would bo more akin to ‘ parallelism * than 
to ‘ interaction ’ because we should wish to think of mind rather as a jH^rfeetion 
and co-operation of the adaptations and acquisitions stored in the body than as a 
separate thing, independent of these, and acting upon the body from the outside 
without being regulated by them.” Principle, p, xxv. But it should be borne in 
mind tfiat Bosanquet does not adopt the doctrine of paraUolism. The phrause 
“ akin to parallelism ” appears in the above passage, but only by comparison with 
interaction. See Value, p- 2 (note). 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 


41 


pretation an effect of the body. Is interpretation an 
extraneous affair ? Bosanquet answers this question in 
the negative. It is very difficult to form an exact idea of 
what he means by the expression — interpretation of body. 
He is never explicit on the point. It seems, all that 
Bosanquet speaks of the relation between mind and body 
is not by way of an explanation but by way of a statement 
of facts. Like Bradley he too thinks the problem to be 
insoluble. In one place he writes, “ I do not for a moment 
pretend that I can overcome the difficulties, which have 
been pronounced insurmountable of uniting the treatment 
of soul and body in a single explanatory theory.” ^ 
Bradley gives up all hopes of explaining the vexed problem. 
“ It is not possible,” says he, “ to explain the connexion 
between soul and body, for soul and body are not 
realities. Each is a series, artificially abstracted from the 
whole, and each .... is self- contradictory. We cannot 
in the end understand how either comes to exist, and we 
know that both, if understood, would, as such, have been 
transmuted. To comprehend them, while each is fixed in 
its own untrue character, is utterly impossible. But if 
so, their way of connexion must remain unintelligible.” * 
There is one more vexed but serious problem about 
mind. Can we call the Absolute and the finite individuals 
minds ? Bosanquet is of opinion that the finite individual 
is a raind.3 “ What we can say affirmatively is that the 
individual, as we know him, is mind, and a mind.” * 
Bosanquet thinks that the characteristic of mind is to 
possess the * logic and spirit of the whole. Hence mind 
is also styled a whole. Bosanquet sums up his views on 

* Principle t p. 1B7. 

* Appectrance and Reality, p. 297 (1930). 

* It should be remembered that, for Bosanquet, there is only one individual 
and that is the Absolute. Finite beings are individuals in a secondary sense. See 
PrineipU, pp. 68-69. Also see Reference, Chapter II, Bogie and ReaUty (note). 

* Principle, p. 286. 

8— 1245B,J, 



4% BENOY GOPAL RAY 

the nature of the finite individual thus ; “ What we call 
the individual then is not a fixed essence, but a living world 
of content, representing a certain range of externality, 
which in it strives after unity and true individuality or 
completeness because it has in it the spirit of non- contradic- 
tion, the form of the whole.” ^ Thus we see, the finite 
mind has in it the ‘ logic and spirit of the whole.’ But 
it possesses the form of the whole in a limited degree* 
Only the Absolute possesses the form of the whole in a 
perfect manner. It alone exhibits the spirit of non- 
contradiction most fully. In this sense the Absolute 
alone can be taken as the best whole and the most perfect 
mind. But it must be remembered that Bosanquet’s 
Absolute is not another mind. It is not a mind apart 
from finite minds. Finite minds are constituents of its 
energy. ® Thus we see, the Absolute and the finite 
individuals can be called minds. It is only in the sense 
indicated above that we can best understand the following 
favourite assertion of Bosanquet. He says, “ I do not 
doubt that anything which can ultimately be, must be 
of the nature of mind or experience, and, therefore, that 
reality must ultimately be conceived after this manner.” ® 
All that we mean by the assertion is that reality is of the 
nature of mind. To be of the nature of mind is to possess 
the ‘ logic and spirit of the whole.’ 


‘/Wd., p. 289. 

* But in Chaptsr VIII wo nhsll find that the flaito minds have melted into 
thin air. They have been transmuted and rearranged in the Absolute, 

• PrindpU, p. 136, 



CHAPTER VI 
Religious Consciousness 


From the previous chapter we learn that the finite 
individual may be called a mind. In this chapter we 
propose to discuss the adventure and stability of finite 
selfhood. Bosanquet agrees with Green ^ in insisting on 
the finite-infinite nature of the individual. According 
to him, the finite individual tries to transcend itself. It 
tries to fulfil itself because the spirit of the whole is operative 
in it. In this act of self-transcendence, it faces the whirl- 
wind of hazards and troubles. 

The immediate appearance of things suggests that 
the finite selves are at arm’s length with one another. 
It seems, they live in a world of claims and counter-claims. 
The finite individuals regard themselves as independent 
beings although they are connected by relations of right 
and duty. “ Life so eonceived,” Bosanquet says, “ is 
full of hazard and hardship ; of hazard, because these 
relations of right and duty do not express our real unity 
with God, man, and nature, and so have a character of 
chance ; of hardship, because, being accidental, they are 
constantly breaking down, and we find ourselves always 
failing in our ‘ duty ’ and not getting our rights.” ^ 
But is it the last word of life ? Bosanquet answers the 
question in the negative. We consider life as hazardous 


' Th6T6 is a divilia principle at work in man. The infinite in him impels him 
to realise his potential nature. He has the impulse “ to make himself what he 
has the possibility of becoming, but actually is not, and hence not merely, like 
the plant or animal, undergoes a process of development, but seeks to, and does, 
develop himself.*’ Green, Prolegomena to Ethica, p. 182 (2nd Edition). 

• Valm and Deetiny, p. xxv. 



44 :&ENOY GOPAL RAY 

because we have not yet realised that we are also infinite. 
We regard the world in which we live as one of claims 
and counter-claims, because we have not yet found out 
the deeper unity which binds us together. Bosanquet 
says, we really belong not to a world of claims and counter- 
claims but to “ the great .world of spiritual membership.” 
The security and stability of finite selfhobd lies in religious 
consciousness where the finite individual gives up its 
individualistic claims and surrenders itself to the whole. 

Similarly, pleasure and pain come under the head 
of hazards and hardships. “ Pleasure is certainly a hazard. 
It may come from anything, good or bad, and we cannot 
tell what in a given context it indicates. Pain is both 
a hazard and a hardship. Not only may it come from 
anything and indicate anything, but it seems to be in 
itself a cruelty exercised by the universe upon us.” ^ 
Pleasures and pains of the finite are the outcome of its 
double nature. Man experiences both pleasure and pain 
because he is a finite-infinite being and, as such, always 
tries to transcend his limited nature. When our effort 
towards completeness is successful, the result is pleasure. 
Again when it is unsuccessful, we have pain. Thus we see, 
pain and pleasure are the necessary accompaniments of 
the same forward^ movement of life. 

From the above it is clear that the finite individual 
has to face hazards and hardships. It is because man 
as a finite-infinite being has the greatest impulse to 
transcend his limited nature that he experiences the 
tribulations, pleasures and pains of life. But wherein 
lies the security ? We have already remarked that the 
security of finite selfhood lies in religious consciousness. 

Now, what is religious consciousness ? It amounts 
to the recognition of its own nature by a finite-infinite 
creature. Hegel declares, “ Religion is the knowledge 


^ p* 162 . 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 


45 


possessed by the finite mind of its nature as absolute mind.” 
Bosanquet mingles his tune with that of Hegel when he 
says “ Religion is just the weld of the finite and the 
infinite.” ^ Religious consciousness lifts us above our 
finitude and connects us with the supreme spirit. “ It 
is the surrender or completion of finite selfhood in the 
world of spiritual membership.” ^ Man has the true 
religious attitude whenever he makes his “ finite self seem 
as nothing and some reahty to which it attaches itself seem 
as all.” 3 

What does religion yield ? It does not yield escape 
from effort, release from pain or respite from evil. These 
are involved in the very structure of finitude and it cannot 
be expected that they will vanish. Religion affords 
emancipation but it is emancipation through these 
experiences and not from them. Bosanquet says, “ In the 
broadest sense wherever man is devout — ^wherever he 
places his value in something beyond his private self, 
and that something taken to be real — there he has set his 
foot on ground which so far emancipates him from the 
hazards and hardships, the discipline of finiteness ; or 
rather emancipates him not so much from these incidents 
as actually through them.” ^ 

Religious consciousness gives us security. It is by 
way of religion that man attains to a basic cofafidence in 
life and comes to “ be at home ” in the universe. Security 
comes only through “ giving ourselves to something which 
we cannot help holding supreme.” Thus to give one’s 
self is the attitude of faith. Hence the whole meaning 
of religion might be summed up in the weU-known 
expression, justification by faith. The universal basis 
and structure of religion appear wherever man is devoted 


* Whca RtUgion Is, p. 62. 
» Value, p. 226. 

* im, p. 236. 

*Ibid., p. 239. 



feDNOY QOPAL RAY 


U 

to a cause “ where his personal fate seems to him as nothing 
in comparison of the happiness or triumph of the cause.” ^ 
The question may here arise : Wilt thou be made whole ? 
Bosanquet replies, yes. How ? Bosanquet says, we are 
made whole through joining a whole. A finite being 
exhibits discordant ideas and attitudes, confiicting systems 
of thought and habit. The soul which constitutes the 
finite being is the principle of rationality. This generates 
the effort, of readjustment, reconciliation and incorporation 
into a more comprehensive and non-contradictory whole. 
The world of claims and counter-claims with its typical 
manifestations is incapable of independently maintaining 
itself. It can exist only within the deeper and more 
comprehensive order of a spiritual whole. 

Is religious consciousness to be had through philosophy ? 
Philosophy depends on the religious consciousness but 
the latter does not depend on the former. Religion being 
a full experience is essential to philosophy.^ Philosophy 
as a theoretical interpretation of experience must depend 
on religious consciousness. But religious consciousness 
stands in its own right. Philosophy, however, serves a 
useful purpose. In considering religious consciousness 
“ much assistance may be given by philosophy in separating 
the essential from the unessential.” ® Bosanquet says 
that the religious consciousness stands in its own right and 
needs no support from philosophical theory, except in 
the way of disengaging its essentials. 

Bosanquet is very eager to maintain the practicality 
of religion. He does this by drawing a distinction between 
God and the Absolute. In religion, good is still loaded 


1 What Religion Is, p. 6. 

* “ Philosophy according to Hegel’s conception of it, does but draw the 
conclusion supplied by “the premises of religion : it supplements and rounds off 
into coherence the religious implications.” 

Bee Wallace, HegeVs Philosophy of Mind, pp. XLV, xlvi. 

* Value, p. 230. 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 


47 


with the inherent contrast to evil, and if evil were to 
disappear the practical attitude of religion would vanish. 
The inherence of evil within tho religious consciousness 
proves the presence of evil in the consciousness of God. 
“ God conceived as identified with the finite struggle 
against evil, cannot be perfection — the Absolute — ^in which 
aU evil is absorbed .... The fact that the reUgious 
attitude is largely practical, and the fact that rehgious 
tradition, with one voice, admits that it contemplates 
God in imaginative shapes, arc thus obviously in agreement. 
Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Lord, Omnipotent, Creator, 
Providence — none of these terms can apply to a universe 
or an Absolute which has nothing outside it. . . . ” ^ 
God of religion is not a being for whom evil is annihilated. 
He is regarded as the representative of the Universe and 
he is overcoming evil by good. He satisfies our religious 
aspirations. Religious consciousness carries us to God 
and not to the Absolute. Thus we see, religious conscious- 
ness cannot prove to be the ultimate. It is difficult to 
reconcile this view with the contention as earlier set forth 
that man’s religion offers him the best stability. How 
is it possible for Bosanquet to assert that in rehgious 
recognition man is secure ? God of religion is an appearance 
of reality. He is distinct from the supreme and ultimate 
reality. Bosanquet promised at the outset security and 
stability to finite creatures in their religious recognition. 
Towards the end of the second Gifford volume it seems, 
religious consciousness is not the ultimate. It is only a 
step towards the perfect individuality. Bosanquet is help- 
less whenever he makes a distinction between God and 


1 Value and Destiny, p. 249 

Bradley also distinguishes between God and the Absolute. “ If you identify 
the Absolute with Gk)d,” says he, “ that is not the God of religion. . Short 
of the Absolute, God cannot rest, and, having reached that goal, he is lost and 
religion with him.” See Appearance and Reahty, p 447 (1908). For Bradjoy^ 
God of religion is only an aspect or an appeswance of the Absolute. 



48 BENOY GOPAL RAY 

the Absolute. If Absolute be the ultimate reality, how 
can we attain the Absolute ? Is it through religious 
recognition ? No. Religioiis recognition gives us 
appearance only. Bosanquet observes, “ The conclusion 
is, in a word, that the God of religion, inherent in the 
completest experience, is an - appearance of reality as 
distinct from being the whole and ultimate reality,” ^ 
Thus he himself raises the difficulty : “ If the standpoint 
of religion is not ultimate ; if it is possible and necessary 
to conceive of the Absolute as something of which religion 
itself, with the conflict of good and evil, is not a complete 
account, to what attitude or mode of recognition on our 
part does such a conception correspond ? . . . . ” 

We know, Bosanquet definitely rejects the idea that 
philosophy is superior to religion. But he does not give 
up altogether the claims of philosophy. He wants to 
speak something more on it. “ There is always, I suppose, 
a normal and general mode of consciousness, and awareness 
of a certain kind of object corresponding to every reflective 
attitude which really proves distinct and well-grounded ; 
and to this philosophy, as the theory of the Absolute, is 
no exception.” ^ Somewhat later he observes, “ The 
universe is the magnificent theatre of all the wealth of 
life, and good and evil are within it. This I think, we 
are aware of when at our best ; and this awareness corres- 
ponds to the sense of the Absolute whole within which 
religion itself is a feature. . . . Here in passing we have 
elucidated our common sense of the Absolute, the real 
awareness of an inclusive world to which philosophy as 
a reflective theory corresponds and which widens and 
sweetens our religious consciousness,” Now, we find, 
our knowledge and attainment of the Absolute are depen- 
dent on the awareness of the whole. When have we the 


* Value, p. 255. 

* See Valm and Destiny, pp. 31042. 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 


49 


awareness ? Bosanquet replies — ^we have the awareness 
when we are at our best. Let the question be pushed — 
How do we know that we are at our best ? Bosanquet here 
does not give a clear and decisive answer. Surely we 
cannot be at our best in religious consciousness for it leads 
to God and not to the Absolute. 

In the next place, what is the status of God in the 
scheme of the real ? Is it an entity other than the 
Absolute ? Bosanquet replies, No. It is simply an 
appearance of the ultimate reality. Why does the 
appearance exist ? Bosanquet is silent on the point. 
Sankara’s God is the Absolute when it is enveloped in 
may a. Is the Absolute of Bosanquet possessed of may a ? 
No. Bosanquet does not introduce any such conception 
into his philosophy. 

There are some who contend that all these difficulties 
are due to the arbitrary distinction which Bosanquet 
makes between God and the Absolute. He could have 
avoided all difficulties if he had confessed that there is no 
distinction between God and the Absolute. Dr. Ward 
defines the Absolute as God-and-the world. ^ Prof. Pringle 
Pattison too suggests the same definition. God, for him, 
exists only as a self- communicating life. The eternal 
fashion of the cosmic life is that creation is a self-revelation 
of the Divine in and to finite spirits. “ This then,” Pringle 
Pattison says, “ is the true Absolute.” “ The Absolute 
then means, God-and-the-world.” The Absolute is God- 
and-the-world. ® But in order to maintain the practicality 
of religion, Bosanquet is bound to make a distinction 
between God and the Absolute. “ The practical attitude 
means that the contradiction between good and evil survives, 
and the survival of this contradiction necessarily implies 
that God as worshipped in religion is not a being for whom 

If* 

> r/w Realm of Ends, p. 241 (2iid Ed.). 

• The Idea of God, p. 433 (2nd Ed.) (Supplementary notes). 

7— l246B.jr. 



50 


BENOY GOPAL RAY 


evil is annihilated.” ^ Thus we see, Bosanquet is bound 
to distinguish between God and the Absolute. But once 
he makes the distinction he becomes quite helpless. The 
conception of God becomes loosely connected with the 
rest of his philosophy. 


^ Foiuc, pp. 240-50^ 



CHAPTER VII 

• The State and Free-will 

Is the finite individual possessed of free-will ? This 
problem will engage our attention in this chapter. Professor 
Bosanquet discusses the question of freedom in relation 
to the State in his famous book — The Philosophical Theory 
of the State. In it he preaches philosophical idealism, 
in relation to the State which was first propounded by 
Plato. The ideas of Plato about the State, which were 
popularized in Germany by Hegel, were subsequently 
elaborated by Bosanquet. So in this respect, his originality 
does not lie in the formulation of a theory but in 
its elucidation. 

The Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle argue 
that man is a social or political animal. It is the nature 
of man to live in society. The real nature of the individual 
can only be developed in society. ‘ It is only by living 
in society that a man can realise all that he has it in him 
to be.’ Hegel also speaks in the same tone. The concep- 
tion of the State as a guarantor of freedom is developed 
in his philosophy. Thus he says, “ Nothing short of the 
State is the actualization of freedom.” ^ How can the 
State guarantee the freedom and personality of the 
individual ? It does so in virtue of the fact that, the 
State is a real personality and has a real will. Here we 
come across a paradox. My freedom can be best ensured 
only by myself. It appears that the State, by imposing 

1 See Joad> Modern Political Theoryt p. 12. 

‘VThe Statie is the actiialization of oonorete freedom.’* Quoled by Sterrelt, 
The M$hice of p. 197 



teBNOY GOPAL RAY 


limitations on my action, hampers my freedom. Some 
idealists meet the paradox in the following way. We are 
said to have acted freely when we act in accordance with 
our real will. The State is an embodiment of the real 
will of the individual. The real will is the General Will. 
“ Representing as it does that aspect of the individual’s 
will which harmonizes with the wills of othets, his will, 
that is to say, for the good of all, including self, as opposed 
to his will for the good of self at the expense of all, it is 
of necessity always rational and always right. ... It 
follows, therefore, that the actions of the State in so far 
as they proceed from the General Will, must always be 
irreproachably right in the sense that they represent what 
is best in individual wills.” ^ 

Bosanquet too begins with the same paradox in 
another form. For him, the idea of self-government rests 
on a paradox. It is true, self-government is the ground 
and justification of all political obligations. But if there 
is to be a government at all, others must exercise authority 
over me. How can this be compatible with self-government 
(government of myself by myself) ? Bosanquet overcomes 
the difficulty by pointing out that there is no fundamental 
opposition between two selves. By fellowship with other 
individuals,’ one acquires the capacity for life. Self- 
government is only possible when we think that human 
beings are not naturally isolated from one another. They 
are not artificially brought together in the State. Self- 
government is not the government of each by himself 
but of each by others. To be ruled by others is tantamount 
to be ruled by oneself for there is no natimal isolation and 
distinction between one self and another. Bosanquet 
meets the paradox in the following way : “ We must not 

treat the self as ipso facto annihilated by government ; 
nor must we treat government as a pale reflection, pliable 


^ C. E. M. Joad, Modem Political 't'henm nn 



PH11,080PHY of bosanquet 


53 

t/O all the vagaries of the actual self. Nor, again, must 
we divide the inseparable content of life, and endeavour 
to assign part to the assertion of the individual as belonging 
to self, and part to his impact on others, as belonging to 
government. We must take the two factors of the working- 
idea of self-government in their full antagonism, and 
exhibit through and because of this, the fundamental 
unity at their root, and the necessity and conditions of 
their coherence. We must show, in short, how man, the 
actual man of hesh and blood, demands to be governed ; 
and how government, which puts real force upon him, 
is essential, as he is aware, to his hecoming wlmt he has it 
in him to he." ^ 

From the above account, we learn that the State 
is the embodiment of General Will. Rousseau distinguishes 
the General Will from the will of all. The will of all is 
the summation of particular wills.* It may be unanimous 
but is not something general in nature. Rousseau suggests 
that “ it is the community of interest or the nature of the 
object and not the number of voices, which distinguishes 
the General Will from the will of all.” ^ The General 
Will, in other woi’ds, aims at common good. “ It is that 
identity between my particular will and the wills of all 
my associates in the body politic which makes it possible 
to say that in all social co-operation, and in submitting 
to even forcible constraint, when imposed by society in 
the true common interest, I am obeying only myself and 
am actually attaining my freedom.” ® The General Will 
is an organic unity. It is a principle which brings all 
individuals into a harmonious concrete whole. The 
opposition between self and others is gone and sovereignty 
becomes the exercise of the General Will. 

Philoaophioal Theory of the State (1926), pp. 72-73 (4th Ed.). 

» Ibid., p. 106. 

*Jbid„ p. 100. 

•V 



BENOy OOFAL RA^ 


d4 


But every individual may have a particular will, 
contrary to or divergent from the General WiU. “ His 
private interest may prompt him quite differently from 
the common interest ; his absolute and naturally 
independent existence may make him regard what he 
owes to the common cause as a gratuitous contribution 
the loss of which will be less harmful to others than the 
payment of it will be burdensome to him ; and regarding 
the moral person that constitutes the State as an imaginary 
being because it is not a man, he would be willing to enjoy 
the rights of a citizen without being willing to fulfil the 
duties of a subject.” ^ Such a 'man brings the progress 
of society to a deadlock. What steps would society take 
in such a state of affairs ? “ Whoever refuses to obey 

the General Will shall be constrained to do so by the whole 
body ; which means nothing else than that he shall be 
forced to he free. . . . ” ^ A somewhat paradoxical result 
follows from this conception. The policeman who arrests 
the thief and the magistrate who locks him up are really 
expressing the thief’s real will to be arrested and locked 
up. The policeman and the magistrate are the officials 
of the State which expresses the real will of the thief who 
is a member of it. Moreover the thief is acting freely 
when he is being taken to the police station. 

So far, we have tried to remove the contradictions 
that beset the concept of self-government. We have seen, 
virtually self-government is government by others. Such 
a concept of self-government gives us the true idea of 
freedom. Bosanquet is very explicit on the question of 
freedom. Every individual feels that he has to expand 
his own self. Expansion of the self is needed to develop 
the best that we have in us. We are always endeavouring 
to become ourselves. In order to achieve this end every 
one must expand his own self. Bosanquet says that 


^ • H* J. Tozer, Mot*sseau*s Social Qontraet, p. 118. 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 66 

freedom is the condition of this expansion or of becoming 
ourselves. Freedom, for him, means acquiescence in a 
law and order in which our universal self is realized . Liberty 
means ‘ being ourselves most completely.’ Self-government 
in the sense as taken above, asks us to subject our private 
contradictory wills to the General Will. In the subjection 
to the General Will, the private will is expanded and 
freed. It is true, the system of law and order restrains 
our private wills. But in another sense it makes for the 
possibility of developing our true selves. Thus Bosanquet 
writes, “ It is possible for us to acquiesce, as rational 
beings, in a law and order which on the whole makes for 
the possibility of asserting our true or tiniversal selves, 
at the very moment when this law and order is constraining 
our particular private wills in a way which we resent, 
or even condemn. 8uch a law and order, maintained 
by force, which we recognise as on the whole the instrument 
of our greatest self-affirmation, is a system of rights ; 
and our liberty or, to use a good old expression, our liberties 
may be identified with such a system considered as the 
condition and guarantee of our becoming the best that we 
have it in xis to be, that is, of becoming ourselves.” ^ 
Hegel and Bosanquet denounce in strongest term 
license. Bxxt they advocate the cause of true liberty. 
License 'means working without constraint. Trqe freedom, 
on the other hand, necessitates constraint. I’he State, 
by imposing certain limitations on our private wills, makes 
us free. It nourishes and sustains us. It expands our 
ideas and helps us in being ourselves most completely. 
General Will is the real will of the individual. Some 
critics take the General Will as a mere figment of imagina- 
tion. But if the General Will be only a figment, how 
is self-government possible? We have seen, self-govern- 
ment is possible only on the Hegelian principle which 


^ Phihaopfmal Theory of State, p. 119, 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


56 

4 *- 

teaches that the State ‘ is the objective spirit and that 
the individual has its truth, existence and ethical status 
only in being a member of it.’ The General Will is my 
own substantive will. In obeying it, I am only obeying 
myself. ‘ The notion of freedom must not be taken in 
the sense of the casual free-will of each individual, but 
in the sense of the reasonable will, the will in and for 
itself.’ 

Many trenchant criticisms have been urged against 
this idealistic conception of General Will. Presently we 
shall consider some of them. The theory of General Will, 
when analysed comes to this. There is in me a real self, 
my real will which is opposed to what I very often am. 
In other words, the idealists distinguish between the real 
will and the actual will. Morris Ginsberg offers the follow- 
ing criticism. “ There may be something in each individual, 
and therefore in a soceity of individuals, which responds 
to a conception of an ultimate good or idea of perfection. 
This however, is badly described as ‘ real ’ will. ’The 
actual wills of individuals contain many elements which 
are not in correspondence with such an ideal of perfection’ 
and these elements are quite as ‘ real ’ as the ‘ real ’ 
will. If, on the other hand, by the latter is meant a fully 
articulate scheme of organised purposes or ends, this is 
strictly speaking, an ideal and not a real’ will.” ^ 
Ginsberg’s criticisms are valid only psychologically. Speak- 
ing psychologically, all human volitions that occur, are 
real. But the metaphysician’s standpoint is different. 
From the standpoint of the whole, the Ultimate Reality, 
only those volitions are real which are self-consistent and 
harmonious. The actual will of the individual is often 
contradictory and inconsistent. The actual will is real 
in so far as it tallies with the General Will which is self- 
consistent and harmonious. Hence for the idealists, the 


' The Psychology of Society, p. 90. 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 


«7 


ideal will is the real will. This is nothing but an application 
of the idealistic dictum — The Ideal is the Real. 

The General Will is embodied in the State. How is 
the General Will determined ? How do people determine 
the General Will with regard to a particular decision ? 
They do it by the vote of the majority. Is the majority 
always right ? The majority is often swayed by private 
considerations. “ The electorate may be hypnotized by 
the popular press, drugged with advertisements, deafened 
by the ‘ boosting ’ of so-called business candidates.”^ 
To-day there are several States in the world. Do they 
embody General Will ? If Bosanquet were alive to-day, 
he would have said — No, many of the present States are 
not States at all. They never embody the General Will 
of the members. What Bosanquet describes is not the 
practice of existing States but the attributes of the 
Ideal State which embodies the true General Will of the 
members. 

Is it at all necessary that there should be the confluence 
of at least two wills in order that there may be a General 
Will ? Rousseau and Bosanquet are of opinion that the 
General Will is the will which aims at common good. 
General Will does not depend on the number of votes. 
Prom these assertions, we may reasonably draw certain 
conclusions. The will of a single individual is the General 
Will when it aims at common good. The will of the 
minority may embody the General Will. The will of the 
Dictator isi the real will of the community when he works 
with an eye to the common good. How then, can we 
determine the General Will ? How can we ascertain 
whether the majority or the minority is right ? Here 
we submit, theoretically the idealistic theory of General 
Will is perhaps flawless but it suffers ship-wreck when 
we care to make a practical application of it. 

^ Modem Political Theory, p. 

8-— 1846B.J. 



BmOY GOPAL RAY 


m 


What is the real character of the State ? Is it simply 
a government ? Bosanquet answers, “It is not merely 
a political fabric but includes the entire hierarchy of 
institutions by which life is determined, from the family 
to the trade, and from the trade to the church and the 
university. It includes all of them, not as mere collection 
of the growths of the country, but as the structure which 
gives life and meaning to the political whole, while receiving 
from it mutual adjustment, and therefore expansion and 
a more liberal air.”^ This State disciplines and nourishes 
the individual. It seems, Bosanquet constructs the State 
as an absolute structure. But here he is often mis- 
understood. Prof. Hobhouse accuses Bosanquet of sotting 
up ‘ the State as a greater being, a spirit, a super-j)er8onal 
entity, in which individuals with their private consciences 
or claims of right, their happiness or their misery, are 
merely subordinate elements.’ {Metaphysical Theory of 
the State, p. 27.) “ The individual is absorbed in the 

organised political society, the State of which he is a 
member.” We agree with Prof. Haidar when he maintains, 
“ All this is sheer misunderstanding. Bosanquet has no- 
where said that the General Will is something over and 
above the particular wills of individuals in which they 
are lost. What he maintains is that the wills of individuals, 
in so far as they make the common good their end, is the 
General W^ill. The .so(*ial w’hole is of the nature of a 
continuous or self-identical being {jervading a system of 
dift’erences and realised in them.’ In interpreting society 

Bosanquet, in short, makes use of the organic unity ”2 

Here we must guard against a possible misconception. 
Bosanquet s Absolute must not be confounded with his 
State. The State is an organic conception. It exists 
in the phenomenal region. The Absolute of Bosanquet 


‘ PhtloBophtcal Theory of the State^ p. 140. 
* JSfeo-Heyeliantsm, pp. 299*300. 



ttllLt)SOt>HY OS’ BOSAKQtrteT SS 

is the perfect individuality where all distinctions are 
merged and reconciled. The State, for him, is only an 
element of the Absolute. It is urged against Hegel that 
he deems the State as the earthly God. But this is not 
the whole truth about Hegel. Earthly God, for him, 
is not the only God. There is the Absolute Spirit, • which 
is ultimately real. Bosanquet too warns us not to confuse 
between earthly good and heavenly good. “ It is then 
only spiritual goods that is real and stable, earthly and 
material aims are delusive and dangerous, and the root 
of strife.” ^ 

So far, we have viewed the problem of free-will from 
the standpoint of the State. We have discussed the 
question — how can we act freely ? We have found out 
the answer from Bosanquet’s book. We act freely when 
we will our own real will. To will the real will is to will 
the General WiU. The General Will is embodied in the 
State. But we have just seen, the State is only a pheno- 
menal affair. It is a mere element of the Absolute. Let 
us now view the problem from the standpoint of the 
Absolute or ultimate reality. In what sense are we free 
agents ? Here we face the problem from the true meta- 
physical angle. Bosanquet says that the truest type of 
individuality is the concrete universal. It is a world 
or a cosmos. There is nothing outside it by which it 
can be determined, and, hence, it alone is free in the truest 
sense of the term. The concrete universal or the Absolute 
exhibits the spirit of non-contradiction mogt fully. The 
finite beings have got an impulse towards this spirit of 
non- contradiction. The freedom of a finite self arises 
from its membership of the concrete universal. As a 
member, the finite self also is a cosmos but it is a part 
of the cosmos. “ The character of being a cosmos carries 
with it its own mode of self-determination and uutiative. ’ ® 

* The PMloeophieal Theory of the State, p. xiv, 

* Jhrmdple, p* 320* 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


Freedom does not consist in keeping the self aloof from 
the influence of the environment for the self is the inward- 
ness of the environment itself. True freedom of the self 
lies in the direction towards unity and coherence. 

So a finite self is free for it follows its own self-deter- 
mination. But the critic may object. The present action 
of the finite self is determined by the past out of which 
it arises. Bosanquet answers by saying that “ all logical 
process is the reshaping of a world of content by its own 
universal spirit.” ^ In another place he writes, “ Nothing 
past, nothing external is operative in the agent’s choice. 
It is all gathered up and made into the agent himself, and 
its remodelling in him is one with his creative production 
of a new deed.” ^ 

Bosanquet likens the free action of an individual to 
the creative freedom of a piece of aii. The creative freedom 
of art lies in the ‘ spirit of logic.’ It means that ‘ its 
creativeness lies in its fulness and penetration, not in 
arbitrariness and discontinuity with reality.’ ^ The same 
‘ spirit of logic ’ rules over the finite self. A finite self 
is free for it is creative and originative according to its 
own universal law. It is self-determined. Self-determina- 
tion means the impulse towards unity and coherence 
(the positive spirit of non-contradiction). 

Our result so far is this. The finite individual self 
is free for it is a member of the concrete universal. It 
is a world and reality is a world of worlds. The finite 
self as a wo«ld is continuous with other worlds and with 
the whole. This is the picture of the universe as an organic 
unity. But the old question arises. Does Bosanquet 
stick to it ? In the succeeding chapter we shall see that 
all finite selves have been reduced to mere elements. 


» Ibid., p. 332. 

* Ibid., p. 366. 

* p, X2CXIT. 



tHiLOSOPHt Ot BOSANQU^t 61 

They are no longer members of the Absolute or the 
Concrete Universal. If finite selves are so lost in the 
Absolute, what then is the good of talking of human 
freedom ? From the side of the Absolute, then, the question 
of finite free-will is simply irrelevant. 



CHAPTER VIII 


The Absolute and the Finite Individual 

From the finite individual, we now pass on to the 
Absolute. The crux of all philosophy lies in the recon- 
ciliation of the Absolute with the finite individual. We 
know, Bosanquet starts from the Hegelian concrete 
universal. He starts with high hopes of attributing to 
finite beings their due share in the scheme of the real. 
He says that the main business of the universe is the 
making of souls. But towards the end of the present 
chapter we shall see that all hopes have been dashed to 
the ground. All souls laboriously developed at high cost, 
have simply been dissolved in the Absolute. 

Before we dive into details, it will be wise on our 
part to introduce the Hegelian view of finite selfhood. 
Hegel’s Absolute idea is, as Caird interprets it, “ the idea 
of a self-consciousness which manifests itself in the difference 
of self and not-self, that through this difference, and by 
overcoming it, it may attain the highest unity with it- 
self.”^ Hegel’s Absolute is not a unity in which all 
differences are lost. It is rather the unity which realises 
itself in the differences. It is the unity of self-consciousness 
which exists in and through the plurality of finite objects. 
“ Man as spirit,” Hegel says, “ is a reflection of God.”* 
He is not a mere transitory phenomenon, a creatine of 
the hour. If he is a reflection, he is a necessary reflection. 
His existence is essential to the self-realization of the 
Absolute. But here, our philosopher deviates from the 
true Hegelian path. He writes, “ The general formula 


I Btgel, p. 183. 

* JPhUomphy of Beligumt English Translation, Vol. Ill, p. 40. 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 63 

of the Absolute, .... the transmutation and rearrange- 
ment of particular experiences, and also of the contents 
of particular finite minds, by inclusion in a completer 
whole of experience, is a matter of everyday verification.”^ 
The ideas of transmutation and rearrangement at once 
make us sceptical about the real ontological status of the 
finite individual. It seems, finite individuals are passing 
}>henomena. They are mere transitory appearances. 

Whenever Bosanquet discusses the question of finite 
individuality, ho starts with the formal distinctness of 
selves.* He does not deny that the distinctness of parti- 
cular persons is a fact in practical life. But he warns 
us not to loose sight of the underlying unity which is often 
overlooked. The common conviction is that personal 
feelings are private and incommunicable and individuality 
lies in exclusiveness. But however private and unshareable 
feelings may be, they always imply a universal objective 
content which is the common possession of all finite minds. 
The objective content is comprehended by them in different 
ways, but the content of what is variously comprehended 
is always the same. Bosanquet writes, “ The pure privacy 
and incommunicability of feeling as such is superseded 
in all possible degrees by the self-transcendence and 
universality of the contents with which it is unified.”^ 

According to Bosanquet, true individuality lies not 
in exclusiveness but in the expansion of the self and its 
identification of itself with other selves in common interests 
and movements. He says that it is impotence and no 
mysterious limitation that keeps men apart from one 
another. “ At their strongest, they become confluent.” 
In social interests the individual becomes one with his 
fellows. In science, art and philosophy he shares the 
universal interests of humanity. 


* Princ^ple, p, 373. 

> Valiie, p, 38. 

iri ^ Bilfc Bamxtpx&t adopts a disparagiof ton© toward* *!i 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


64 ^ 


Bosanquet is not content with the assertion that a 
self is at its best when it is expanded and coalesces with 
other selves. In the next place, he says that all finite souls 
find their true individuality when they are merged in the 
Absolute, Bradley and Bosanquet are of opinion that 
the Absolute is a whole in which all finites blend and are 
resolved. The ultimate fruition of finite selfhood lies 
in such an absorption. 

The ideas of merging and blending suggest important 
issues. At this point, let us attack the main problem 
of the present chapter. The question is whether the 
finite individual is a member or ah element of the Absolute. 
The difference between a member and an element is very 
significant. The conception of element does away with 
the very idea of self. The contribution of an element 
is the contribution of a quality or a predicate. But a 
member is a self which is a unique expression of the Absolute. 
It is a centre into which the ultimate reality pours its own 
being. Again it makes its unique contribution to the 
life of the whole. Professor Bosanquet has the greatest 
tendency to call the finite individuals elements and not 
members of the whole. In his Logic he writes that the 
only ultimate subject of predication is the “ one true 
individual Real.” All finite individuals are ‘ in ultimate 
analysis connexions of content within the real individual 
to which they belong,’ and of which they are therefore 
‘ ultimately predicates.’^ In the second Gifford Volume 
he definitely asserts, “ The finite self, like everything in 
the universe, is now and here beyond escape an element 
in the Absolute, ’’^ And in the footnote he adds, “ I 
do not say a member of the Absolute. Such an expression 
might imply that it is, separately and with relative 
independence, a standing differentiation of the Absolute.”. 


‘ Logic, Vol. II, pp, 258-59 (2nd Ed.). 
* Valm and Dtatiny, pp. 267-5$, 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQOBT 0f 

Again he declares in the same spirit, “ Spiritual individuate 
must qualify the universe not merely as subordinate 
existants, which declare themselves adjectival in claiming 
attachment to their substance, but more finally and 
completely, as predicates . , . . ” ^ Professo.r Pringle Pattison 
is inclined to criticise Bosanquet by saying that his theory 
does not contain the idea of self at all. “ The world k 
dissolved into a collection of qualities or adjectives which 
are ultimately housed in the Absolute.” ® 

Mr. Bradley has a similar tendency to disparage the 
finite beings. He views the question of souls from the 
side of the Absolute. “ It may be instructive,” says Mr. 
Bradley, ‘‘ to consider the question (of souls) from the 
side of the Absolute. We might be tempted to conclude 
that these souls are the Reality, or at least must be real. 
But that conclusion would be false, for the souls would 
fall within the realm of appearance and error. They 
would be, but, as such, they would not have reality. They 
woiild require a resolution and a recomposition, in which 
their individualities would be transmuted and absorbed 
.... The plurality of souls in the Absolute is therefore 
appearance and their existence is not genuine. . . . To 
gain consistency and truth it must be merged, and recom- 
posed in a result in which its speciality must vanish. 
Bradley thinks that the finite selves as such do not j^ssess 
any value for the Absolute. As to the final destiny of 
finite beings he says, “ We have a re-arrangement not 
merely of things but of their internal elements. We have 
an all-pervasive transfusion with a re-blending of all 
material. And we can hardly say that the Absolute consists 
of finite things, when the things, as such, are there trans- 
muted and have lost their individual natures.” * Professor 

1 tAit and JMta indiwduaUty. p. 100 (StympoHnm). 

• Idea of 0od, p. »71 (2nd Ed.). 

» dppmtranoo and pp. 304-6 (1016). 

p. 



06 


BBNOY aOPAL RAY 


Bosanquet too tells us that the content of the imperfect 
individual has to be “ transmuted and re-arranged.”^ 

Thus we see, both Mr. Bradley and professor Bosanquet 
are very fond of using such expressions as “ transmuted,” 
" absorbed,” or “ transformed ” whenever they have to 
speak of the final destiny of finite beings. They emphatical- 
ly assert that the finite beings as such cannot exist in the 
Absolute. The question arises, what becomes of the- finite 
self when it is absorbed ? The result is that there is no 
formal self. Only the readjusted contents of such a self 
survive in the Absolute. Only the harmonized values 
cling to the ultimate reality. This is the only contribution 
that we can make to the Absolute experience. And this 
contribution must' be conceived as the contribution of an 
element. It is, as Pringle Pattison suggests, “ a peculiar 
flavour or tang to universal experience.” 

Why does Professor Bosanquet treat the finite 
individuals of his philosophy as elements of the whole ? 
The reason is not far to seek. Both Mr. Bradley and 
Professor Bosanquet think that an unmediated pluralism 
is the only alternative to their own position. Bosanquet’s 
entire polemic is directed against the tendency to over- 
emphasize the exclusiveness of the finite self. But he goes 
to the other extreme. The strongly monistic tendency 
impels him to treat the finite life as a negligible process. 
Thus in combating pluralism, he tends to pass into a 
somewhat Spinozistic monism. 

What is the real truth about the relation of Absolute 
to finite individual ? We agree with Prof. Pringle Pattison 
when he suggests “ that the whole conception of blending 
and merging, as applied to finite beings, depends on the 
failure to recognise that every finite being must possess 
a substantive existence. ” Professor Bosanquet and Mr. 
Bradley regard the finite individuals as mere elements 


> Logie, Vol. II, p. 2fi8 (2nd Ed.). 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUHT 


91 

or predicates. But “ to be a self is to be a formed will, 
originating its own actions and accepting ultimate 
responsibility for them.” He is not a mere pipe through 
which the Absolute pours itself. Pringle Pattison says, 
“ From the side of the Absolute the meaning of the finite 
process must lie in the creation of a world of individual 
spirits ; for to such alone can He reveal himself, and 
from them receive the answering tribute of love and 
adoration.”^ And he suggests that the nature of the 
finite individual lies in being a whole of content, 
“ constituting a unique focalization or expression of the 
Absolute, and thus making its unique contribution to 
the hfe of the whole.”^ 

Prof. Bosanquet is very eager to save the contents 
of the self at the cost of its form. He repeatedly urges 
that the readjusted contents of the finite self survive in 
the Absolute. According to him, we do not demand 
the continuance of our formal self. We demand the 
preservation of our interests and affections which cany 
us beyond our formal and exclusive self. But what do 
we mean by the form ? If by form we mean the personal 
limitations, idiosyncrasies and shortcomings, Bosanquet 
is perhaps right in repudiating it. But by form we really 
mean the necessary and inseparable counterpart of content. 
Hence we are by no means justified in alienating one 
from the other. If content survives, the form too must 
survive. And if values live, persons too must live for 
values inhere only in persons. 

Now, we sum up our discussion. Prof. Bosanquet 
cannot satisfactorily solve the question of the one and 
the many. The Absolute, for him, is the only fontal 
reality. The finite individuals melt into thin air. But 
he sets enormous value to the finite attainments. He 

» Idea of Qod, p. 296 (2nd Ed.) 

* md, O. 269. 



BENOy GOPAIi’jRAY 

tries to ooimeot finite values with the Absolute but he 
fails. An interesting question crops up here. Can we 
at all connect the eternal order with the temporal one ? 
Plato kept the two in two compartments. According to 
him, the Ideas or the Forms constitute a real world, whereas 
the world of sensible things is only semi-real. We have 
knowledge of the Forms. It is of the Forms that we have 
knowledge as opposed to mere opinion which clings to 
the sense-world.^ Opinion takes cognizance of the fieeting 
and changing things of sense. The world of Forms will 
not die even when this sensible world vanishes. In other 
words, the realm of Ideas does not require the world of 
sensible particulars for its sustenance. !?an)kara’s Brahman 
has no need of the Jivas. But Hegel’s Absolute needs 
the finites and needs them most. Bosanquet’s greatest 
tendency is to maintain the prestige of the Absolute even 
at the cost of the finites. If the temporal be a phenomenal 
manifestation of eternal, the temporal is real just as a 
phenomenon is real. But if the tcmpoi’al be an illusory 
manifestation of eternal, the temporal is inexplicable just 
as an illusion is inexplicable. It is neither real nor unreal. 
There are some philosophers who think that the temporal 
is only an element of the eternal. It seems, Bosanquet 
supports the last view. In our succeeding chapter, we 
shaU consider Bosanquet’s conception of time. But before 
we leave the present chapter, we must needs emphasise 
the point that Prof. Bosanquet regards the finite individuals 
as elements and not as members of the whole.* Hence- 
forward, we shall treat the finite beings of his philosophy 
as mere elements of the real. 


* There are admirable paseages in Plato’s Hepublio ” which give ns the 
best discussion on knowledge and opinion (BK, V.). See p. 189 (Davis and 
Vaughan), Translation. 

♦ It is interesting to note that the Indian thinker Saibkara does not think that 
the final destiny of the individual is to be a mere element of the Absolute. In 
tnokfa the individual becomes the Absolute. 



CHAPTER IX 
The Absolute and Change 

No system of philosophy can be perfect which does 
not present a satisfactory solution of the problem of change. 
The problem of change is as old as philosophy itself. 
Things seem to persist and things seem to change. How 
is it possible for things to persist and yet to change ? 
How is this deadlock in thought to be removed ? How 
are we to have the static and the d3mamic views of the 
world reconciled ? Since the very dawn of human specula- 
tion, thinkers are trying to arrive at a proper solution 
of the burning problem. Heraclitus is deeply impressed 
with the fact of change. He concludes that permanence 
is an illusion. Things are in an endless process of becoming. 
The Eleatics take the opposite view and deny the very 
possibility of change. Change, according to them, is 
illusory. This dual between the Herachtians and the 
Eleatics has been carried even to the present day. To-day 
philosophers insist on the objectivity of time and change. 
The neo-idealist, the neo-realist, the pragmatist and the 
instrumentalist denounce in strongest terms the conception 
of a block universe. They intend to affirm that reality 
is a history or an unending process. Change is the character 
of the real or change is the real. Again there are some 
who affirm that the future is to complete the past. ‘ The 
good is to be won by the race and for the race : it lies 
in the future and can result only from prolonged and 
collective endeavour.’ The main purpose of aU these 
schools is ‘ the repudiation of any view which can affirm 
a perfection in the universe apprehensible through religious 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


experience and philosophical speculation, not limited to 
the series of temporal events.’* 

Bosanquet agrees with the votaries of change when 
they say that change is an obvious fact which nobody 
can deny. Change or time exists. The question is whether 
it is in the Absolute or the Absolute in it. Bosanquet 
gives us his views about the question in a neat formula, 
7+5=12. ‘ If 12 were not the same as 7 +5, the Judgment 

would not be true. Again if it were not different, the 
Judgment would not be a Judgment.’ Then he says, 
“ What you have in this simplest example, then, is an 
eternal novelty. It is the expression of something which 
parting from itself, remains within itself, and which, being 
always old, is yet perennially new.” ^ Votaries of change 
are of opinion that if novelty, progress and difference 
are to be achieved, the identity of the whole as a whole 
must be abandoned. Bosanquet accuses them of committ- 
ing a blunder in elementary logic. They have not 
imderstood the formula, 7+6=12. “ When once for all 

the principle of the Judgment 7+5=12 is mastered, we 
grasp the paradox at once of reality and of inference. 
The whole does not abandon itself to give rise to difference ; 
it is as a whole, and not as surrendering its totality but 
precisely in virtue of its wholeness, that it is the source 
of differentiation.” ^ 

It is obvious that Bosanquet does not deny the 
existence of change or time. The whole does not change. 
It can be said to change only ‘ if it departs from its unity 
of character and value.’ But its nature reveals itself in 

• See Meeting of Extren^, p. 121. 

1 Ibid, p. 104. 

F, C. S. Schiller says that the formula (74-5=12) is hardly a good example 
of an eternal truth because it is not properly a truth at all. It is not properly a 
Judgment, but only a proposition. And the qualities of truth and falsity are 
reserved for Judgment. See Mind, A|>ril, 1922, 

* Ibid, p. 112. 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 


71 


changes. The revelations of the whole are in time. The 
whole contains within itself its revelations and time. The 
succession of finite phenomena is the expression of the 
infinite reality through finite spirits. In this vast universe 
we come across a fundamental unity, a simple energy 
which reveals itself in time. But “ the foundational 
nature of all that is, while containing the infinite changes 
which are the revelation of its inexhaustible life, not 
confinable within a single direction or temporal career, 
is not itself and as such engaged in a progress and 
mutation.” ^ 

According to Bosanquet, all times have their unity 
in the Absolute but the unity itself is timeless. The 
unity of all times is not the unity of one series. All times 
do not form a grand series in the Absolute. They are 
interrelated and unified but their interrelation and unifica- 
tion falls outside time. In other words, Bosanquet ’s 
Absolute contains time but at the same time transcends 
it. “ Its self- revelation,” says he, “ need not proceed 
by any one of what are called progresses or advances, 
which involve moving away from its own nature and 
diminishing itself on one side as it intensifies itself at 
another. That is the growing of a finite creature. An 
infinite whole .... must live out alike to all its sides and 
aspects, must expand into and live itself out in all values, 
but constrict itself into a history in respect of none.” ^ 

It is worth while to consider the claims of a possibility. 
The real universe is all that is but there are the possibilities. 
The universe can change within the bounds of possibilities. 
Thus the gates of future are wide open. The universe 
is not merely what is but what may be. Bosanquet raises 
his objection against such a view. He writes “ Possibility 
is within the real, not reality within the possible.” Here 

^ Meeting of Extremes, p. 210. 

» Xm, p. 183. 



72 


BENOY GOPAL RAY 


we arrive at a final answer from Bosanquet. “ There 
are two extremist views, both representing prima facie 
demands of human nature. Let time be the most real 
of realities and give us a fighting chance of making over 
the universe into something nearer to what we take to 
be our heart’s desire. Or let time be a minor incident 
or phenomenon in a whole, planned with certainty to bring 
us in the end to our heart’s desire, whether on earth or 
in heaven .... We repudiate, then, both of the extreme 
standpoints. We consider time as an appearance only, 
a position which the former doctrine denies, b\it in opposi- 
tion to the latter doctrine as an 'appearance inseparable 
from the membership of finiteness in infinity, and therefore 
from the self-revelation of a reality which as a whole is 
timeless.” * 

Bosanquet supports his views on change by an appeal 
to the true meaning of teleology. We iJkve already seen 
that the debate on change has divided philosophers into 
two factions. Progressists put the Absolute in time 
whereas the perfectionists put time in the Absolute. 

‘ Bosanquet thinks that the concept of teleology is involved 
in the debate as basal to it.’ In the ordinary sense, teleo- 
logy is only a psychological idea and it cannot be applied to 
the perfect whole or the Absolute. The Absolute does 
not use means to accomplish ends. And it has no un- 
fulfilled desire. But teleology can be understood in a deeper 
sense. In its profounder meaning it is a non-temporal 
category. As such it can be applied to the Absolute, 
and when so applied, it implies that time is in the Absolute. 
In the ordinary sense, “ it refers to a purposive order 
involving items related to each other as end and means ; 
taken in this sense it is applicable only to a series in which 
conscious purposes are fulfilled and is essentially identical 


* Value andDe^iny, pp. 294-96, 



PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 


73 


with perfectivity. But there is a deeper interpretation 
in which the teim refers to a nexus of relations within 
a perfect whole ; here it means perfection.” ^ 

Like many other idealists, Bosanquet regards change 
as an appearance. In this connexion it must be remembered 
that change is an appearance only from the standpoint 
of the Absolute. Change implies instability. Plato regards 
change as mere lapse and Aristotle as a tendency to realiza- 
tion. But both view the real as changeless. It is true 
that Aristotle regards God as activity or energy but this 
activity knows no change. For fiamkara, the real is 
changeless. For Bradley, ‘ nothing that is perfectly real 
moves.’* It should be remembered in this connexion 
that these idealists do not deny change. They affirm 
change and explain it. In !?arhkara, change is unreal 
since it implies instability. On no occasion can change 
cling to Sariikara’s Brahman. Somehow the pure Absolute 
Being falls into the trap of maya and gives rise to the 
phenomenal world which contains change. In Bradley, 
change is an appearance which is contradictory in character ; 
but it is not non-existent. In Bosanquet’s philosophy, 
the Absolute by virtue of its absoluteness or wholeness 
gives rise to changes. Changes occur within the Absolute 
but they do not disturb the completeness or perfection 
of the Absolute in any way. 

Is the Absolute of Bosanquet a dead and static whole ? 
As a true Hegelian, he does not accept the charge of dead- 
ness as justifiable. Because the universe is a complete 
and unified whole, it is not, say the Hegelians, either a 
static or a finite whole. The Absolute does not change 


' See Philosophical Peview, Vol. XXXII, pp. 615. 

♦ Bradley’s Absolute enters into, but is itself incapable of, evolution and 
progress. “ The Absolute hae no history of its own, though it contains histories 
without number.” 

App* and Reality ^ p. 499 (1916), 

lO— 1245B.J. 


0 



74 


BENDY GOPAL BAY 


but it contains histories without number. This is 
Bosanquet’s reiteration. But we raise the question. Does 
it improve the situation in any way ? According to 
Bosanquet’s theory change occurs only within the Absolute. 
It rises in the Absolute and dies in it. In other words, 
Bosanquet makes the Absolute the immanent spring from 
which all change arises as well as the all-embracing sea 
into which all change merges. But by so doing, does 
he not make all progress non-existent and change unreal ? 

Again Bosanquet’s view of time is defective in another 
way. His Absolute may be viewed as the objective order 
of things. But things in their -objective order are not 
ultimately real for they are all finite. It must be the 
order of things, not the things thus ordered, that is ultimate- 
ly real. And this order does not involve time. An 
inevitable consequence of such a theory is that it cannot 
explain how the Absolute manifests itself in time. We 
have seen, Bosanquet calls time an appearance which is 
inevitably connected with the manifestation of the Absolute. 
But the question always remains ; How does the timeless 
order manifest itself in time ? Surely Bosanquet cannot 
advance a suitable reply to this pertinent query. 



CHAPTER X 


Thk Absolute and Evil 

Another eternal problem that arises in connexion 
with a discussion of the Absolute is the problem of evil. 
The problem is as old as philosophy. Thinkers are always 
trying to arrive at a correct solution of the problem ; but 
the eternal problem refuses to be solved. Bosanquet tackles 
the problem but he too cannot be said to have reached a 
definite and satisfactory conclusion. The problem is 
enveloped in perennial mystery. Two facts about it, 
liowever, are absolutely certain. Firstly, evil is real and 
none can doubt its existence. Secondly, it cries out to be 
overcome. We can state with sufficient precision these 
two facts about evil. Thus far we can go and if we want 
to go beyond the limit, we are left in the hands of abstract 
surmises. Mysticism is one amongst the several schools 
of thought that explain evil away. There is the mystic 
and we may believe in his convictions. To a mystic, there 
is no evil. He gets a new scent of goodness on this earth. 
For him, evil is annihilated. Mysticism however is greatly 
a matter of feeling. Reason cannot penetrate its walls. 
But reason warns us not to explain evil away. On the 
other hand, an exercise of reason reveals the fact that 
evil and finiteness are intertwined. 

There are some idealists who solve the problem of 
evil by basing their arguments on a transcendental plane. 
They are of opinion that, from the absolute standpoint 
there is nothing called evil. If we knew everything, we 
should see and feel that there was no eviL But it is surely 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


insulting to tell a man in pain that there is no such thing 
as evil. Again there are some who try to solve the problem 
by attempting a reconciliation while ‘ clinging to the old 
idea of an omnipotent and impassible creator or an Absolute 
in the role of spectator.’ If this be the explanation, we 
shall exclaim with James that ‘ a God who can relish such 
superfluities of horror is no God for human beings to appeal 
to.’ But Bosanquet views the problem from a different 
perspective. He never denies the existence of evil. Only 
he says that it is reconciled and readjusted in the Absolute. 
For him, evil is never an illusion.* What does Bosanquet 
mean by the expression — readjustment of evil in the 
Absolute ? All that he means is this : in the finite world, 
we find that evil is opposed to good. There is a sort of 
antagonistic relation between the two. But in the Absolute 
they are readjusted. By this we mean that in the Absolute, 
evil and good are somehow made to exist in a relation of 
friendship and amity. 

As to the cause of evil’s existence, Bosanquet writes 
in the first Gifiord volume, “ Broadly speaking I suggest, 
experience indicates that a soul which has never known 
pain, like a nation which has never known war, has no 
depth of being, and is not a personaUty at all.” ^ This 
much is clear. Pain, contradiction and evil exist so that 
there may be the formation of good souls. Formation of 
good souls is only possible when the souls are made to 
pass through the fire of pain and evil. Evil serves as a 
means towards the end — soul-formation. But why arc 
souls formed ? The answer is dejjressing. We have seen, 
finite souls have got a precarious existence in Bosanquet’s 
philosophy. They are made only to be extinguished. 

* Bradley too holds, “ Evil and good are not illusions, but they are most 
certainly appearances. They are one-sided aspects, each over -ruled and transmuted 
in the whole.” App, and Reality, p. 401 (1910). 

^ Principle, p. 245. 



t'HILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUFT 


11 


It is hard to reconcile Bosanquet’s view of soul-formation 
with his reiterated doctrine that the destiny of the finite 
selves is to be transmuted and rearranged in the Absolute. 

Bosanquet dwells on the problem of evil from two 
different standpoints. From the finite standpoint evil is 
evil and we should not palter with the truth. It exists 
as the finite exists. In finite life, contradictions, evils 
and inconsistencies do exist. Bosanquet says, “ In truth 
the actual world is charged with contradiction. ... In 
the life of conscious beings, again, contradiction is a felt 
experience as actual as pain, dissatisfaction and unrest 
which are forms of it or one with it.” ^ Contradiction 
is existent.* Bosanquet says, we try, to overcome contra- 
diction continually but as finite beings we cannot over- 
come it completely. 

But there is the standpoint of the Absolute. 
Bosanquet’s Absolute is a harmonious whole. It cannot 
contain in it contradictions or evils in their true nature. 
But what is a contradiction ? Bosanquet says, evil and 
pain are one with it. “ Contradiction is a deadlock caused 
by the attempt to bring together two or more different 
terms without adequate adjustment of content for their 
reception.” ^ In this sense contradiction cannot be the 
characteristic of the ultimate reahty. In the Absolute it 
exists in a resolved and reconciled manner. The way 
to remove contradictions is not to set them aside but to 
readjust them within a new and comprehensive unity. 
This is negativity, the spirit of the real. It means solved 
contradiction. It is the reduction of opposite things to 
the elementiness of an organized whole. 


^ Principle, pp. 2^7-28. 

^ “ contradiction then is a characteristic of reality so far as presented 

in the actual world of fact. In the form of pain, dissatisfaction and unrest it may 
almost be called an actual existent*” Science and Philosophy, p. 78. 

Ibid, p. 225. 



BtJNOY GOPAL ray 


78 


At the pi’esent juncture, a question of great importance 
arises. In the finite order, evil is a ragged end, but in the 
Absolute it is a finished and reconciled event. How far 
is the readjustment or reconciliation of an evil possible ? 
Can logical contradictions be reconciled in the Absolute ? 
Can the Absolute get rid of the mass of logical contradic- 
tions ? Black excludes non-black in the same time and 
under the same circumstances. Is it possible for black 
in, the Absolute not to exclude non-black under the same 
conditions ? Can we suppose that the Absolute can 
override the laws of Identity, Contradiction and Excluded 
Middle ? The answer is always In the negative. Next, 
we have got the affective evils, viz., pain, suffering, dis- 
comfort, jobbery and the like. We may believe that these 
affective evils are somehow reconciled with good and other 
values in the Absolute. Thus our inquiry leads us to hold 
that not all evils are reconciled in the Absolute. Only 
the affective evils may be so readjusted. Logical evils 
refuse to be readjusted. They are what they are. 

How does readjustment take place ? Here Bosanquet 
does not give us any definite answer. It seems, he is 
content with a ‘ somehow.’ In our opinion, the act of 
readjustment is an act of pure miracle. We cannot explain 
it on any rational hyjpothesis. Only we must be content 
with the assertion that it is miraculous and mysterious. 

We have seen, Bosanquet discusses the problem of 
evil from two different standpoints, viz., the finite and the 
infinite. But such a discussion suggests an interesting 
query. Who owns the mass of contradictions and evils 
as they exist for us ? According to Bosanquet, the Absolute 
is the “ totality of a hold on reality.” Surely the Absolute 
owns our evils and contradictions. Again the Absolute 
owns the evils only when they are readjusted and reconciled. 
Here we are brought to a deadlock. Are we to suppose 
that the Absolute owns simultaneously the untransformed 



70 


PHILOSOPHY OF BOSANQUET 

evil and the reconciled evil? But such a supposition is 
unwarranted. What Bosanquet tries to say is this : for 
the Absolute, evil is always readjusted. From the Absolute 
standpoint, evil is always reconciled with good. There 
is no untransformed evil. Whatever needs reconciliation 
and readjustment for us, is already reconciled and readjusted 
in the Absolute. But from the finite standpoint, evil is 
always in antagonistic relation to good. It requires 
readjustment. It cries out to be overcome. 

Evil is reconciled in the Absolute. But can we 
characterise the Absolute by evil ? Bosanquet replies, 
“ There is evil, then, within the Absolute but the Absolute 
is not characterised by evil.” ^ The Absolute certainly 
contains evil, error, pain and ugliness. In it, they exist 
as expanded by coalescence with other values. But surely 
we cannot characterise it by any of these imperfections. 
Similarly the Absolute cannot be fully characterised by 
subordinate excellences. “ As the perfect experience it 
is more than beautiful, more than pleasant, more than 

true and than good It is plain that a perfection 

which reconciles all these characteristics must be more 
than each of them. It cannot be a conjunction ; it must. . 
... .be a transformation.” ^ 

Wherefrom does evil ,come ? Here Bosanquet gives 
us an unsatisfying reply. In one place he writes, “ We. . 
.... understand not that evil is good but that it is made 
out of the same stuff as good ; the stuff of life, its passions 
and values. It is evil when it is evil, that is, when it is 
antagonistic to good, and impairs our values or the will 
to them.” ® But the question arises. Why is evil 
antagonistic to good ? They are made of the same stuff. 

1 Value and Destiny ^ p. 217. 

8 Ibidf pp. 212-13. 

This point occurs also in chapter XI. 

• ^ome 0U0yeation9 in Ethics^ p. 113, 



80 ' 


BENOY GOPAL RAY 


There is perhaps nothing in the stuff that can set one 
against the other. Is there an external agent that sets 
them in opposition ? But we have no reason to suppose 
like that. Thus we see, Bosanquet cannot satisfactorily 
explain the genesis of evil. 

There is another grave question regarding the problem 
of evil. How is evil compatible with the goodness of 
God ? Fortunately, for Bosanquet, no such question arises. 
He does not start from a good and benevolent God. He 
starts from the Absolute or true Individuality where 
everything finite remains in a reconciled manner. His 
Absolute is the perfect whole. 

From the above considerations, it is clear that 
Bosanquet’s account of evil is not without its defects. 
Looked at from the finite standpoint, evil is opposed to 
good but from the absolute standpoint, it is reconciled 
with good. But as finite beings, we are concerned with 
the finite standpoint. Evil exists for us. And we try 
to overcome it. Our daily life is not one of despair. We 
believe that evil is being overcome. Unless we knew, in 
some way, that there is a way out, evil would be too heavy 
for us to bear. But what is the secret of success ? Here 
Bosanquet introduces the faith of a good man and agrees 
to it. “ Evil is evil ; once more, you have not to palter 
with this truth ; but all the same, it can be overcome ; 
not at a distance, but now and here ; and the secret of 
overcoming it is to feel that it is overcome, and to treat 
it practically as a conquered thing.” ’ Thus we ^ see, 
Bosanquet is inclined to strike a practical cord. He takes 
recourse to the psychology of belief. Believe it in this 
way and you get the wished — for result. No amount of 
theoretical speculation or moral preaching can make us 
think that evil is being overcome. We can think that 


* Some mggeetioue in Ethice pp. 104-5, 



PHI3L0S0PHY OP BOSANQUET 81 

evil is overcome only when we believe that it is so. We 
should also act in accordance with the belief. But here 
Bosanquet raises a voice of caution. Evil is being 
overcome continually but it cannot be overcome complete- 
ly in the finite world. Only in perfection, it is completely 
overcome. Only in the Absolute it is completely reconciled. 


11— 1248B,J. 



CHAPTER XI 


An Estimate op Bosanqubt’s Philosophy 

We have at last come to the end of our study. In 
this chapter we shall make an estimate of Bosanquet’s 
philosophy. The tap-root of Bosanquet’s central thoughts 
lies in Hegel;* His philosophical principles are formed 
under the influence of T. H. Green and F. H. Bradley. 
But Bradley’s influence on him is greater than that of Green. 
In a letter addressed to Signor Vivante, he writes, “ Now 
I am follower of Bradley,, though I was a pupil of Green 
and still value his work very highly. But Bradley’s 
system is very complete and original, though founded on 
a very profound study of Hegel.” ^ 

Empiricism was the principal ruler in the domain of 
British Philosophy when Stirling published the epoch- 
making work. Secret of Hegel. It gave an impetus to the 
study of Hegel and led to the foundation of the school of 
Philosophy known as British Neo-Hegelianism. ^ 

About the time of the publication of Stirling’s great 
work, other philosophers also had been studying Hegel. 
Among them were Green and Edward Caird. When Green 
entered the arena of philosophical thought he foimd that 
the empiricists had reduced mind and reality into aggregates 
and series of unrelated impressions. He fought against 


* It is interesting to note that the root of entire European philosophical thought 
can be traced to Plato. Prof. Whiteheatl goes so far as to describe the whole 
European philosophical tratiition as consisting of ‘a series of footnotes to Plato.* 

* BosanquH and his friends (Letters edited by Muirhead), p. 262. (Also 
quoted in Chapter I.) 

* T. H. Green, Edward Caird, William Wallace, F. H. Bradley, B. Bosanquet, 
O. Ritchie# Sir Henry Jones and others belong to this school, 



titiLOSOPHY OP BOSANQtTET 8^ 

empiricism and urged with great emphasis that, apart 
from relations, sensations are nothing.^ Bosanquet too 
condemns the idea that reality is a mere heap of unrelated 
impressions. For him, a thing is true only in its relation 
to other things and to the whole. But it should not be 
supposed that Bosanquet’s reality or the Absolute is a 
mere cob-web of relations. It is true, his reality or the 
Absolute contains relations. But it also transcends them. 
The reality for Bosanquet, is thought but it is not merely 
relational or discursive thought. Again thought can know 
reality but this thought is not merely discursive but 
in part intuitive. We have touched on this point 
elsewhere.^ As we proceed we shall also speak more 
on it. 

The basis of Green’s thought is Hegelian. But he 
starts from Kant and uses Hegel mainly for the purpose 
of removing Kant’s inconsistencies and defects.® But 
Bosanquet is a Hegelian out and out. He is often described 
as an anglicised Hegel. We have seen, how deeply he is 
influenced by Hegelian thoughts.* He starts with the 
Hegelian programme of the concrete universal. But he 
does not stick to the principle. Here and there he deviates 
from the true Hegelian ideal. His deviation is perhaps 
due to the tremendous influence which Bradley exercises 
on him. Though he does not carry out the Hegelian 
programme faithfully, stiU his philosophy is tinctmed 
through and through with Hegelianism. 


> According to Oroen, nothing can enter into the constitution of our experience 
which does not bear to it some kind of relation. Experience is constituted by 
an organised system of relations. Nothing can be conceived which is not cons- 
tituted by relations. Thus the intelligible is constituted by reUtions. If wo take 
the relations away, the related system becomes dessolved into a heap of psyobio 
or physical elements. 

« See chapter II (Logio and BeaUty), 

* See Haldar^e Neo^Hegelianismf p, 18 , 

* See previous ohaptere. 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


Green tries to know reality but ends in a theory which 
has a tinge of agnosticism in it. He writes, “ That God 
is, it entitles us to say with the same certainty as that 
the world is or that we, ourselves are. What he is, it does 
not indeed enable us to say in the same way in which we 
make propositions about matters of fact.... But 
Green admits the truth that man seeks to become hke 
God, and “ to have the fruition of his Godhead.” Here 
Green anticipates a difficulty. If we do not know fully 
what God is, how can we seek to become like him ? He 
tries to obviate the difficulty by taking recourse to faith 
but still his theory smacks of a tinge of agnosticism. 
According to him, the full nature of God cannot, in a strict 
sense, be known. In the Prolegomena to Ethics, he asks 
the Kantian question — How experience is possible. Hc> 
then reaches the conclusion that it consists of related 
things and as such has for its presupposition a unity of 
consciousness in which it is centred. Apart from an 
eternal consciousness, the universe has no meaning. What 
is the character of this eternal consciousness ? Green 
is rather chary of saying anything positive about the 
eternal consciousness. He writes, “ As to what that 
consciousness is in itself, or in its completeness, we can 
only make negative statements. That there is such a 
consciousness is implied in the existence of the world, but 
what it is we only know through its so far acting in us 
as to enable us, however partially and interruptedly, to 
have knowledge of a world or an intelligent experience.” ^ 
But Bosanquet never ends in agnosticism. His 
Absolute is knowable. What is ultimately real is through 
and through spiritual. It is something which exists for 
thought and is the embodiment of thought. The Absolute 


* Green, Works,, Volume III, p. 268. 

* ProUgomma to Wthies, p, 64 (2nd Ed.). 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 


86 


is not an unknowable entity, bearing no relation to thought. 
On the other hand, it itself is thought. Bosanquet holds 
that thought can know reahty. But Green is rather 
eager to lay stress on the deficiencies of our merely finite 
thinking. This is why a tinge of agnosticism always 
clings to his philosophy. 

After Green, Bradley enters the arena of philosophical 
thought. Unlike Green, he does not start from epistemo- 
logy. While Green builds his ideahstic edifice on the 
foundations of epistemology, Bradley and Bosanquet attack 
the problems of metaphysics more directly. In his meta- 
physics, Bradley does not follow any definite method. He 
closes with Hegel’s thought ^ but does not follow his 
dialectic. Bradley’s dialectic is rather subversive. His 
transition from appearance to reality is forced and arbitrary. 
The appearances are first condemned as self-contradictory. 
But suddenly they are reduced to a system in the Absolute. 
The procedure looks like a piece of mira^cle. Bosanquet 
too does not follow the Hegehan dialectic in toto. But 
he always accepts its truth. 

The two absolutistic thinkers, Bosanquet and Bradley, 
have much in common. But it should be borne in mind 
that they differ from each other on some subtle points. 
Hence we think it worth while to devote some space to 
compare and contrast Bosanquet with Bradley on such 
important points as (I) Nature of reahty, (II) Road to 
reality, (III) Principle of materiahty and (IV) Immorta- 
Hty. Along-side of this, we consider it proper to 
introduce the views of Saiiikara, the most pronounced 
absolutistic thinker of the Indian school, on those 
points. 


^ ** Outside of spirit there is not, and there cannot be, any reality, and, the 
more that anything is spiritual, so much the more is it veritably tmd 

Btality, p. Q62 (1916). 



m BENOy GOPAL RAt 

(I) 

With Bradley, Bosanquet thinks that reality is a 
single harmonious system transcending mere relations. 
Both insist on the spirituality of the real. Both like to 
comprehfend the universe not by fragments but by the 
whole. But here they differ. Reality, for Bosanquet, is 
thought, which is always used by him in a comprehensive 
sense. While reading Bosanquet, this is a point to which 
we must hold fast. We have seen, ^ his thought is 
inclusive of feeling. No rigid distinction can be drawn 
between feeling and thought. Bradley regards thought as 
merely analytical and discursive. But Bosanquet finds in 
it the concrete and synthetic principle. Once for all, 
Bradley rejects thought. He writes in Appearance and 
Reality. “ ....Can thought, however complete, be 
the same as reality, the same altogether, I mean, and with 
no difference between them ? This is a question to which 
I could never give an affirmative reply.” ^ Bradley’s 
reality is a single experience. It is “ sentience in its widest 
meaning.” 

Both agree that the Absolute is the ultimate reality. 
The Absolute, for Bradley, is the ultimate reality, all else 
is appearance. But “appearance without reality would be 
impossible, for what then could appear ? And reality 
without appearance would be nothing, for there certainly 
is nothing outside appearances. But on the other hand. 
Reality is not the sum of things. It is the unity in which 
all things, coming together, are transmuted, in which 
they are changed all alike, though not changed equally.” ^ 
Somewhat later he observes, “ The Absolute, we may 
say in general, has no assets beyond appearance ; and 


* S«e Chapter II (Logie and ReaMy). 

* App. and MeaUty, p. 564 (App^idix), 1916* 
» Ibideg pp. 487-88 (1916). 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQTJET 


87 


Again, with appearances alone to its credit, the Absolute 
would be banikrupt. All of these are worthless alike apart 
from transmutation.” ^ 

Following Bradley, Bosanquet too thinks .that the 
Absolute is the only reality. Like Bradley he too regards 
the finite individuals as mere elements. He too regards 
every particular thing of the universe as mere appearance. 
The question crops up, is his Absolute something other 
than the appearances or the elements ? Do not the 
elements make up the Absolute ? Baldly stated, the 
Absolute of Bradley or Bosanquet is constituted of elements. 
Only we are to remember that they are transformed and 
rearranged in it. 

For Saihkara, Brahman is the reality. It is different 
from the phenomenal, the spatial, the temporal and the 
sensible. Unlike Bradley’s Absolute, f^amkara’s Brahman 
does not contain the appearances. “It is not a cause, 
for that would be to introduce time relations.” Brahman 
cannot be described. “ Its nature is inexpressible, for 
when we say anything of it we make it into a particular 
thing. . . . Every word employed to denote a thing 
denotes that thing as associated with a certain genus or 
act or quality or mode of relation. Brahman has no 
genus, possesses no qualities, does not act and is related 
to nothing else.” ^ 

Brahman can be described only negatively. “It is 
sat (real), meaning that it is not asat (unreal). It is cit 
(consciousness), meaning that it is not acit (unconsciousness). 
It is ananda (bliss), meaning that it is not of the nature 
of pain {duhkhasvartlpa)” ® Brahman is nirguna 
(qualityless). How from such a nirguim Brahman does 
the world-order begin ? Here the Indian philosopher says 

* App. and RmlHy, p. 489 (1916). 

» Radhakiishnan, Indian Phthfiophy, Vol. II, p. 636 (Itt Ed.)^ 

* TM,, Vol. n, p. 637, 



BENOY GOPAL RAY 


88 

«(i/> 

that Brahman, cast through the moulds of mdyd, becomes 
l&vara. I6vara becomes the material cause and mdyd 
its instrument of creation. How does mdyd ensue ? 
Samkara frankly confesses, it is inexplicable. We must 
remain content with the assertion — Somehow mdyd is 
imposed on Brahman. Somehow the world -order begins. 
This confessed ignorance of the how is often remarked 
upon. But the philosophy of ‘ somehow ’ does not throw 
any discredit on its theorists. If philosophy goes deep, 
it must needs face incompleteness. ‘ Somehow ’ is only 
a symptom of incompleteness. 

Is the absolute personal ? This question shall engage 
our attention here. For Hegel, the meaning of the Absolute 
idea is that reality is a differentiated unity. In it, the 
unity has no meaning apart from the differentiations and 
the differentiations have no meaning apart from the unity. 
The differentiations are the finite selves who are admittedly 
persons. Their unity, the Absolute is also a person. The 
unity may be more but cannot certainly be less than a 
person. 

But Dr. McTaggart sounds a discordant note. Accord- 
ing to him, “ the Absolute is a upity of persons, but it is 
not a person itself.” The unity of the absolute is spiritual 
but a spiritual unity need not be a person. He remarks, 
“ It might be said of a college, with as much truth as it 
has been said of the Absolute, that it is a unity, that it 
is a unity of spirit, and that none of that spirit exists except 
as personal. Yet the college is not a person. It is a 
unity of persons but it is not a person itself.” ’ In the 
same way the Absolute may not be a person although its 
differentiations are persons.^ 


* Studies in Hegelian Cosmology, p. 68. 

* Dr. McTaggart’s pofiition is hardly tenable. The relation of each finite self 
to the Absolute is organic. Now if the whole in so far as it is the part, is personal > 
how can the whole itself be impersonal T 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQUET 


89 


Bradley’s answer to this question is this. His Absolute 
is not personal as a finite being is personal. A person 
is finite and as such, is distinguished from other persons. 
In such a way, the Absolute cannot be personal. But 
Bradley’s Absolute is never less than personal. Thus 
he writes, “ The Absolute is not personal, nor is it moral, 
nor is it beautiful or true. And yet in these denials we 
may be falling into worse mistakes. For it would be far 
more incorrect to assert that the Absolute is either false 
or ugly or bad, or is something even beneath the application 
of predicates such as these. And it is better to affirm 
personality than to call the Absolute impersonal. But 
neither mistake should be necessary. The Absolute stands 
above and not below its internal distinctions. It does 
not eject them, but it includes them as elements in its 
fulness. To speak in other language, it is not the indifference 
but the concrete identity of all extremes. But it is better 
to call it superpersonal.” * 

Bosanquet too tackles the question in the Bradleian 
way. He fully sympathises with the assertion of Bradley. 
“ Higher, truer, more beautiful, better and more real, 
these on the whole, count in the universe as they count 
for us.” ^ The clue to reality is to be found only in the 
highest in us. But can we say that Bosanquet’s Absolute 
is true, good or moral in the sense in which a finite is true, 
good or moral ? Evidently not. Bosanquet’s Absolute 
is not personal in the sense in which we are personal. But 
it should be remembered that his Absolute contains every- 
thing in its fulness. It contains the ugly as well as the 
beautiful, the false as well as the true. And it contains 
them in a readjusted and reconciled manner. Thus his 
Absolute contains personality as an element in its fulness. 
But it is always more than personal and never impersonal. 

* App. and BedUty, pp. 472-73 (1930). 

• See Prineiph, p. 269. 

12— -12468.^. 



BENOY OOPAL RAY 


fiO 

Samkara views the problem of personality in a novel 
way. His Absolute or Brahman is the negation of any 
idea of personality. Personality belongs to livara and 
not to Brahman. I^vara is determinate Brahman. He 
is the supreme peraonality. “ All the perfections, meta- 
physical and moral, are ascribed to him {I^vara). He is 
said to be raised above all evil. He is the immanent 
spirit. . . . He is the creator, ruler and destroyer of 
the universe.” ' Thus we see, Bradley’s Absolute is 
super-personal but gatiikara’s Brahman is the negation 
of any idea of personality. T^vara alone fulfills our demands 
for a personal Grod. 


(11) 

So far we have defined the nature of reality. The 
next question arises — how to know it ? Philosophers 
and religious seers of all ages and climes have tried to 
show mankind ways to the real. Some have advocated 
the cause of intellect or thought while others have supported 
the claims of intuition. In the history of philosophy 
there was a period when people believed that the real 
could be known fully and thoroughly by the discursive 
understanding. But to-day the old order is no more in 
existence. The reaction from intellectualism is the pre- 
dominant feature of contemporary philosophy. What is 
intellectualism ? To quote the words of Aliotta, it is 
“ an epistemological system which assigns an autonomous 
value to the cognitive function.” Bergson rejects intellec- 
tualism, for its defects are very glaring. “ Intellectualism 
reduces nature and the mind to an inert skeleton .... It 
sees nothing in things beyond the aspect of repetition ; 
the irreducible and irreversible element in the successive 
movements of cosmic evolution eludes it. Mechanical 


> nadhakriidman, Indian Philosophy, Vol. II, pp. B4A-46 (1st Ed.). 



PHILOSOPHY OP BOSANQtJET «l 

explanations hold good of the systems which our thought 
has artifically severed from the continous flux of the 
universe ; but it cannot be admitted a 'priori that the 
universe in its totality together with the systems which 
naturally are found in its image is capable of a mechanical 
explanation, since in that case time would be useless and 
devoid of all reality.” * 

Samkara is of opinion that intuition and intuition 
alone can lead to the real. But his intuition does not 
fight shy of intellect. Faith and devotion, study and 
meditation are intended to train us for this integral 
experience {anvhhava). It is the noblest blossoming of 
man’s reason. It does not come out of the blue. But a 
sheer misunderstanding of Samkara’s philosophy will ensue 
if we say that his intuition is only a development of intellect. 
“ Samkara admits the reality of an intuitional conscious- 
ness, an'uhhava, where the distinctions of subject and object 
are superseded and the truth of the supreme self realised. 
It is the ineffable experience beyond thought and speech, 
which transforms our whole life and yields the certainty 
of a divine presence. It is the state of consciousness 
which is induced when the individual strips himself of 
ail finite conditions, including his intelligence.” ^ For 
Samkara intellect is only necessary for the training of 
mind. It is only preparatory to intuition. 

It is Bradley’s settled conviction that thought can 
never do justice to reality. By distinguishing the ‘ that 
from the ‘ what,’ it is incapable of disclosing the secret 
of reality.* According to him, when we have any sensation, 
we have a ^ that ’ which is actually present and a ‘ what 
by which it is distinguished. In immediate apprehension 
we are not conscious of the distinction between the two 

* Aliotta, Idecdiatto reaction againet Soienoe, pp. 180-131, ft. 

* n-iMfli ft Indian PMloeophy, Vol. n, pp. filO, 811. 

* S«e reference, Chapter II (note). 



B|)NOY GOBAL ray 


aspects. It is a this- what, a process-content. In Judgment 
we distinguish the two, the predicate and the subject, 
and attribute the former to the latter. But life or reality 
is feeling in which the ‘ that ’ and the ‘what ’ are 
inseparable. 

But Bosanquet champions the cause of thought. 
We must remember that his thought is not mere cognition. 
It is not a separate faculty of something known as the 
intelligence. It is the active form of totality. It is the 
life of feeling and essence of free activity.^ As such 
Bosanquet’s thought is not opposed to intuition. On 
the other hand, his thought is in part intuitive. 

(Ill) 

After the problem of knowing arises the question 
of materiality. What is the principle of materiality ? 
In Saiiikara’s philosophy the abstract expression of the 
phenomenality of the world is mayu. Maya caimot be 
different from Brahman which has no second. Again it 
is not identical with Brahman. “ This mayu is a feature 
of the central reality neither identical with nor different 
from it.” ^ Whatever we may call it, it is necessary to 
account for the universe and life. Brahman cast into may a 
becomes Isvara. Mayu then becomes the energy of Tivara 
by means of which he creates matter. “ It is the creative 
power of the eternal God and is therefore eternal ; and 
by means of it, the supreme Lord creates the world.” “ 

‘ See Principle, p. 59 ff. 

Bosanquet does not draw a sharp line botwcjen intuition and intellect or thought* 
His doctrine is just the intimate connection of intuition with intellect. He writes » 
Intuition or insight means looking at an object intrinsically systematic and 
distinct, and discerning its constitutive terms and relations. So far from being 
illogical, it is the essential feature of the higher form of inference. ...” 

Irnplicaiion and Linear inference, p. 94. 

* Indian PhUoaophy, Vol. IT, p. 570. 

> Ibid, p. 572. 



t*HlLO^OPMY BOSAlfQUET &3 

What is the principle of materiahty in Bosanquet ? He 
cannot satisfactorily explain the advent of matter. We 
start with the Absolute. Suddenly, somehow, we know 
not how, matter appears on the scene. Bosanquet does 
not give us any reason for this sudden appearance of 
matter. Is there something like the principle of maya 
in his philosophy ? No. He does not favour such a 
conception. Bradley avoids the problem by calling it in- 
exphcable. He treats materiality as an appearance. And 
as such it is inexplicable. “ The fact of appearance, and 
of the diversity of its particular spheres, we found was 
inexplicable. Why there are appearances and why 
appearances of such various kinds, are questions not to 
be answered.” ^ 


(IV) 

Now comes the time-worn problem of immortality. 
The popular conception of a future life is that it is a supra- 
sensuous world, a counterpart of the present world. It 
is peopled by persons who live eternally. Bosanquet 
rejects this idea. He is of opinion that the next world 
is the value world. Among contemporary thinkers. 
Professor Bosanquet has uniformly adopted a negative 
attitude towards personal immortality. “ The ethical 
imperative (of Kant) guarantees to us an infinite time 
in which to work out its behest: the immortality of the 
individual is bqund up with the moral law as a necessary 
condition of its fulfilment. To this strained and unconvinc- 
ing argument Prof. Bosanquet effectively opposes the 
rehgious experience in which the individual recognising 
once for all the impotence of his finite striving, surrendering 
all claims to goodness on his own account, recognises his 
unity with the Divine goodness by faith and ^so shares at 

1 Aw, and EtaHty^ p. 4dB (1930), 



fiSNOy mPAL %A.t 


once tlie perfection which as finite, he could not win by 
any striving.” ^ Prof. Bosanquet rejects persorial 
immortality, but not all immortality. Immortality, for 
him, is a thing not given but to be won. According to him, 
we can satisfactorily hope to attain immortality only 
when we are good souls. We have come to this world to 
elicit values from externality. We care for these values 
and we crave after their eternal preservation in the Absolute. 
Bosanquet writes, “ In general, we know that what we 
care for in so far as it is really what we care for, is safe 
through its continuity with the Eternal. In this assurance 
there is comprised, in principle, 'all that we long for in the 
desire for our own sixrvival.” Thus we see, immortality, 
for Bosanquet, is the immortality of values and not of 
persons. 

Like Bosanquet, Bradley too adopts a disparaging 
tone towards the finite individuals as persons. The finite 
individuals are transmuted in the Absolute. This is their 
final destiny. According to Bradley, separate existence 
of the finite beings is a defect. “ The plurality of souls 
in the Absolute,” says he, “ is appearance and their existence 
is not genuine.” “ “ Taken together in the whole, 

appearances as such cease.” * Then comes his crowning 
remark. “ In the Absolute ” (to quote him) “ the 
individual attains the complete gift and dissipation of 
his personality ” in which “ he as such, must vanish.” ® 

Samkara adopts a rather different view. According 
to the Indian philosopher, only the knower'of truth attains 
eternal life. Finite beings are Brahman when it is enveloped 
in may a. The moment may a is gone, there is no distinction 


1 Pringle Patti8on» Idea of Irmnortalxiy, p. 163, 

* Value, p. 261. 

* App, and Reality, p. 270 (1930). 

* Ibid, p. 611 (1916). 

^ Ibid, p. 419 passim (1916). 



phil6sophy oy bosanquet ®i 

between the knower and the known, the finite and the 
Infinite. In eternal life the finite becomes the infinite. 
But eternal life is to be differentiated from mere survival. 
Sartikara is serious on the point. Until eternal life is 
gained our lives are bound up with the wheel of endless 
becoming (Samsara). Survival comes to the' lot of all 
finite souls who are guaranteed future existence in the 
endless circuit. But true immortality or oneness with 
the Absolute comes to the lot of those souls who have 
attained the truth by means of spiritual insight. 

So far about comparison and contrast. We shall 
now bring our study to an end. We shall conclude by 
pointing out the legacies of Bosanquet to future thought. 

Bosanquet teaches nothing new. All his thoughts 
can be traced to Hegel, Green, Bradley and other thinkers 
of the Hegelian school. But all through his writings he 
expresses the reasonable faith of open-minded men. Like 
so many other idealists of the Neo-HegeHan school, 
Bosanquet has no faith in a philosophy that has no concern 
with the affairs of practical life. Philosophy must prove 
its effectiveness as a practical creed. This is also his legacy 
to all subsequent idealistic thought. 

He preaches absolute idealism. ' Idealism is an 
ambiguous word with a variety of meanings. Professor 
Sorley distinguishes two kinds of idealism. “ The first 
kind of idealism consists in assigning an existential character 
to truth and in regarding objects of inteUectual apprehension 
as constituting a realm of existence over against which 
the world of concrete facts stands in inexplicable opposi- 
tion.” (Platonic Idealism.) The second type consists in 
the assertion that reality is spiritual, that all existence 
has its centre and being in mind. (Modem idealism.) 
What is Bradleian idealism ? The finite selves are not 


1 poaaiMjttet prefers to call his philosophy, “ Speonlative PhilosOphy.^^ 



96 


BENOY GOPAL RAY 


ultimately real but the reality is the whole which contains 
the selves as elements. The nature of the real is experience. 
Bosanquet’s idealism teaches that the Absolute is the only 
reality. It is individuality. But we come across a peculiar 
hint in his idealism. His philosophical mission is to find 
out the idea, the meaning of the world-process. This is 
why he is so eager to find out the values, arrived at by 
the finite individuals. He regards idealism as a doctrine 
which seeks the idea or meaning of the cosmic reality. 
In his opinion, values alone can partially unfold the infinite 
mysteries of the universe. 

Another gift to modern thought is his emphasis on 
“ concrete thinking.” To separate things from each other 
and from the whole is the inveterate habit of the unreflect- 
ing mind. But Bosanquet shows that reality is a single 
coherent and all-inclusive system. Isolated, self-sufficient 
objects are nothing but false abstractions. A thing has 
being only as an integral factor of this system. 

What is Bosanquet’s attitude towards all the diverse 
movements in contemporary thought ? We answer, it 
is one of general welcome. He is eager to incorporate the 
truths of neo-idealism and neo-realism into his own 
philosophy. With much of what is called realism, Bosanquet 
finds himself in sympathy, especially in so far as realists 
too proceed on the true axiom of knowledge, viz. that we 
can know things as they really are. Also he writes, “ The 
neo-realist, the man of comparative science, and the 
empiricist, are everywhere at work to-day .... building 
the foundations of that speculative philosophy whose super- 
structure already exists. Of course, in doing so, they 
immensely enrich and effectively amend it.” ' 

One word more and we finish. History will remember 
Bosanquet for his spiritual outlook. He says that the 


^ Meeting oj SIxtremea, p. 76. 



PHILOSOPHY OF B08ANQUET 


97 


troubles of life are due to our loss of hold on its spiritual 
foundation. Our present age is an age of immense matOTial 
progress. Science has brought all material comforts 
within the easy reach of all. Still we are unhappy. Why ? 
The reason is that we rely on our own strength and forget 
the call of the Infinite. Bosanquet asks us not to forget 
the Eternal. He sings to evei^ heart the song of the 
Absolute. And as a true seer, he endeavours to quicken 
in every heart the feeling of ‘ at-homeness in the Whole.’ 
Herein lies the beauty of his philosophical thinking. 




Place-Names of Bengal 

BY 

Krishnapada Goswami, M.A. 

CHAPTER I 

Old Place-Names from Inscriptions 

The earliest available sources of place-names in Bengal are the 
inscriptions of the Gupta, Pala, Varman and Sena kings found 
in Bengal and Assam. Not a few names are to be found in 
early works written in Bengal. [See S. K. Chatterji, Origin and 
Development of the Bengali Language, pp. 179 ff.] 

[1] Dhanaidaha Copper-plate Grant of Kumara-Gupta. 

North-Central Bengal, c. 432-433 A.C. (R. G. Basak, Sahitya, 
Pau§a and Caitra, 1323) “K 9 udraka”-village; “Khadapara” or 
"Kha^apara”, a Vi§aya or district (cf. new Bengali word 
“Khari” channel [Khata*»Kha(Ja]). The name “Khafi’* 

is found in the Tarpa^dlghl Grant of Lak^manasena (see 
34). In the Barrackpur Grant of Vijaya-Sena, there is a 
reference of a “Kha4i-Vi?aya”, which was a “mandala”, now in 
tile south of 24-Parganas, We find the word “Kbatika” in the 
Khalimpur Grant of Dharmapala {cf. the modern village name 
“Kharika” in Midnapur district). 

[2] Five Damodarpur Copper-plates of the Gupta Period, , 
N#rtli43entral Bengal. (R. G. Basak, Epigrapbia Indiea, XV* 

7. pp, X33 ff ,) . 



2 K. P. GOSWAMI 

(i) 443-444 A.C. village Ponga. The word occurs as 

^‘dahga” high- land, high, in modern Bengal place-names. 
The words “dangl” “dangar” “dahgari” 

danguri” and “daihg” are also found in the place- 

names of Bengal. These words are derivatives from the word 
‘"danga” which is a Desi word. Of. Assamese “dahgariya” 
high one. 

(ii) tan — high-land. (cf. Bengali tehgra cW-fll upland, 

the name of a village). The word tengii also occurs in 

Gridantenga C^STl, Jaugaltehga cWl, the names of 

villages in the district of Mymensingh. 

(in) 476-495 A.C. Village Pala^a-Vrndaka. The word 
Vrnd aka = modern Bengali bada or vana Villages 

Canda-grama, Vayi-grama. 

(iv) [C/. Vapika-grama in the Tipperah Inscription of 
Lokanatha (see 7) and Rolla-vayika in the Ashrafpur Grant of 
Beva-khadga] . 

(t)) 533-534 A.C. Village Svacchanda-Pataka. Pataka = 
modern Bengali Para neighbourl)ood, quarter, which occurt 
largely in the place-names of Bengal 

Village “ Lavahga-sika ” (cf. modern place-name Noasi 
in Mymensingh). 

Village Satu-vanasramaka (cf. also tlie village name vana- 
^rama^t«t*l in Mymensingh); village Paraspatika; village Purana- 
vrndika-hari [cf. vrndaka above in (in) ; Hari<gharia 
<grhika. '‘A house by the side of the old forest ” (?)] 

[3] Paharpur Copper-plate Grant of the [Gupta] year 
159. North-Central Bengal. 479 A.C. (K. N. Dikshit, BP. 
IND., Vol. XX, No. 5, pp. 159 if.) Village Bata-gohall=moderr 
Bengali Bara-goal (cf. Ghar-goal ^ C’tPiPl in Hughli anc 
Goal-pota in Khulna and Burdwan. Village 

Prsthima-pottaka «= modem Bengali Pithi-pota (?). 

Village Ghosata-pufijaka (cf. the name “GbasiySr^'V 
a village in Mahadebpur police-station, district 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 8 

Rajshabi); village Nitva-gohall; village Pala^a^ta = modern 
Bengali Pal4at (?). 

[4] Three Copper-plate Grants from East Bengal, 6th 
century A.C. (P. E. Pargiter, I. Ant., July, 1910.) 

(i) Village Hima-Sena-Pataka ( «= modern Bengali Para »(1^, 
quarter or village occuring in the place-names of Bengal). 

Village Trighattika (*= modern Bengali Teghati 

Village Sila-Kunda, Rock-hill. Place-names with the 
endings Kunda are found everywhere in Bengal. The word 
Kunda is probably connected with Telugu “Konda” hill, rock, 
as suggested by Prof. S. K. Chatterji in his ODBL., pp. 66-67 
(cf. Kunra heap, mass, dunghill, which also occurs largely in 
the place-names of Bengal). A village Sil-Kuria 
is found in the district of Mymensingh. 

(ii) Village Navyavakasika= Navya-favakasika, new channel 
for passage of water. [See ODBL., p. 180.] 

(Hi) Village Dhru-vila-ti = Dhruva-bila-vati-vadi, where bila- 
vadl= bouse or village by the marsh [cf. Dharatl snit^, a 
village in Dacca]. 

[5] Malla-sarul Copper-plate Inscription of Gopa [-candra] 
and Vijayasena. West Bengal, 6th century A.C. [N. G. 
Mazumdar, VSPdP., 1344 B.S., Vol. 44, No. 1, pp. 17-21; 
S. Sen, Calcutta Review, 1938 A.C., March, pp. 363-65.] 

The following villages are found in the inscriptions — 

Bakkattaka = Present-day Bakta ^4‘«1 

Godhagrama= Present-day Gohagrama or Gogan C’tPS'Sftsf, 

Khaddajotika (Khandajotikeya) = Present-day Khanrjuli <t^- 

Arddhakaraka = Present-day Adra 

Kapi8thavataka=Present-day Kaitara near Adra. 

Madhuvataka» modern Mahara or Maora, 

Va5avallaka= modern Babla 

Kodijavira (cf. modern Bengali Karori ^C^) 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


4 "' 


Vindhya-pur5 (Vindhyapureya) 

Salmalivataka 

Vetragartta; Amragarttika (village name?). 

[6] Inscription of the time of Jaya-naga of Karna-suvarna, 
Central Bengal, 6th-7th century. (L. D. Barnett, EP. IND., 
Vol. XVm, No. 7, pp. 60 £f.) 

Audumbara. Visaya or district. 

Village Kutkuta (Sanskritised from Kukkuda?); c/. villages 
Kukuramuri Kukuramurl in Midnapur 

district. 

Village Amata-pautikagrama. 

Vappa-Ghosa-vata, where Ghosa-vata would give a modern 
Bengali form Ghosara (c/. Goas <Gopavasa 

in Nadia and Murshidabad district, Goari <Gopa- 
vatika a subuib of Krsnanagar, and Goara 

<Gopavata in Faridpur. 

Village Vakhata-sumalika, where Vakhata is the source of 
the new Bengali form Bahara or Bayra (cf. Jota 

Bahara a village in Nadia; Bahara, Bahera 

in Khulna ; Baharagura in Midnapur ; and Bayra 

in Jessore and Rajshahi districts). 

Gahginika, river, probably modern .ralahgl, a branch of 
the Ganges or Padma, which unites with BhagIrathI near 
Nadiya. 

[7] Tipperah grant of Loka-nMha : 7th century. (B. G. 
Basak. EP. IND., Vol. XV, No. 18, pp. 301 ff., Sahitya, 
Karttika, 1321.) 

District (Visaya) of Suvvuhga. “ Kana-motika ” hill 
( = modern Bengali Kanamuri dry ditch. Cf. Khanamuri 

a village (Midnapur). Muri also occurs in place-names 
as Natmuri (Chittagong), Barimuri (Tipperrah). 

Villages Pahga and Vapika. (cf. Pangea a village in 

Faridpur district < pahgavasaka, abode of Pahga. 

Village Tamra-pathara-khanda=copper-stone district. (See^ 
ODBL. p. 180.) 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 6 

[8] Nidhanpur Copper-plates of Bhaskara-varman of 
Kamarupa ; Central Bengal, 7th century. 

[Padmanatha Bhattacaryya, Katnarupa-^asanavali, pp. 1-43 ; 
EP. IND,, Vol. Xfl, No. 13, pp. 65 ff. Kangpur Sahitya Pari^at 
Patrika, 1319, No 4 ; Vijaya, Asarha ; Radha Govinda Basak, 
Dacca Review, June, 1913 ; Amarnath Roy, Indian Culture, 
Vol. I, No. 4, pp. 698. “Gahginika” — River GahginI 
probably modern Jalangl, a branch of the Ganges (found also 
in 6.)] 

Jatall tree (c/. modern Bengali Jarula Cf. villages 

Jarulapala and Jarula in Midnapur and Burdwan 

districts respectively. 

[9] Khalimpur Grant of Dhannapala; North-Central 
Bengal, 1st quarter of the 9th century. (Aksayakumar Maitra, 
Gauda-lekha-raala ; R. D. Bauerji, The Palas of Bengal, ASB., 
Memoirs, V, No. 3.) 

The territory (mandala) of Vyughra-tatl ( = modern Bengali 
Bagari a village in Barisal). 

The district of Mahanta-prakasa {cf. Mahata *15^, a village 
in Murshidabad). 

Villages Kraufica-Svabhra; Palitaka (cf. Palta a 

village in 24-Parganas). 

Madha^ammali {cf. Salmalivataka in [5]) 

The territory of “ Amra-sandika, ” mango-grove. 

The district (vi§aya) of Sthalikkata. 

The village of Go-pippall {cf. place-names Pipalia 
in Howrah and Pipulia in Dacca); “ Udra-grama ” ; 

“ Punarama-vilvahgardha,” a stream ; village Nala-carmmata ; 
cammada>camra = modern Bengali camra ; Villages Namua- 
4ika hesadummika ; Vedasavilvika. Rohita-Vadi( = modern Ben- 
gali Ru(h)ibari or carp-fish town) (see ODBL., p. 

81) {cf. also the place-name Ruhi-gari5p%tt^ in Raj shahi district). 

Pindara-vitT-jotika(c/.Khaddajotika in [5]). 

Jotika = modern Bengali joll or juri as found in 



6 


K. P. GOSWAMi 


the place-names Khanrjoli (Burdwan), Sonajoll 

(Birbhum), Balijuri (Mymensingh), PomjufI 

(Barisal), etc. 

Vitl occurs as Bhiti or Bhita in modern place- 
names of Bengal. 

The name Pindara-viti-jotika would therefore mean the 
channel by the house of the Pindara tree. 

Uktara-yota, where Jota = modern Bengali found in 
the place-names Putijola (Murshidabad), Sonajola 

(Hughli). 

Viti-Dharmayo-jotika = the channel by the house or temple 
of Dharma ( ?) . 

Kana-dvipika (cf. Kana-motika in [7]), blind or edge isle. 
(See ODBL,, p. 81). River Konthiya. 

Jenandayika ; Vesanika-Khatika (where Khatika = modern 
Bengali Khari creek). 

Hattika ( = modern Bengali hatl found in the modern 

place-names of Bengal). 

Tala-pataka [where pataka= modern Bengali para *fTv^ i.e., 
village quarters found also in Svacchanda-pataka in 2 (?))]. 
Gf. modern village-name Telara <*Tailapataka or 

Tailadhaka (Burdwan) ; TelkupT (Manbhuni). 

[10] Tezpur (Assam) Rock Inscription of Harjara-Varma 
on the Brahmaputra, 1st half of the 9th century. (H. P. 
Sastri, JBORS., 1917, Part IV, pp. 508 £f. ; Nagendranath Vasu, 
Social History of Assam, Vol.- 1, pp. 159a, 159b ; Padmanatha 
Bhattacaryya, Kamarupa-sasanavali, pp. 185-92). 

Village Harupapesvara-pura. 

Nakka-josi {cf. Nokka, Nekka in [28] ; also NoasI 
a village in Mymensingh) . 

Avara-parvata. Abor Hills 

[11] Ashrafpur Grants of Deva-Khadga ; East Bengal, 
1st half of the 10th century. (G. M. Laskar, Memoirs of the 
ASB., I, No. 6, pp. 86 ff. ; R. D. Banerji, op. cit., p. 67.) 

Village Tala pataka (found also in [9]). • 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 7 

Village Dara-pa^aka. 

Datta-Kataka (c/. place-names ending in Kara or Kara as 
Vanakara Bijayakara in Tipperah district). 

Markata^I-pataka ( = Markatava8ika pataka, nwnkey-home- 
village). [See ODBL., p. 182.] 

Nava-ropya; Paranatana; Dvarodaka. 

Vvara-mugguka ; Cata ; Jaya-Karmanta-vasaka. 

Talyodyanikara-tarala. Kodara-coraka 

Pala^ata (c/. Palasatta in [3]) 

Siva-hradika-sogga-vargga 

Srimeta ; Para-natana-nada-varmrni. 

Ugra-voraka, where voraka = modern Bengali Vola, Pola 
field, as found in the place-names Benapola (Jessore) 

Gilapola (24-Pargana8). 

Tisanada-jayadatta-kataka (?). 

[12] Tejpur Copper-plate of Banamala; middle of the 
9th century. North-Central Bengal. (Kamarupa-sasanavali by 
Padmanatha Bhattacaryya, pp. 54 ff.) 

Trisrota river ( = present-day Tista) 

Abhisura-bataka. 

Da^a Langala ; Candrapuri ; Abari. 

Naukubasala {cf. Naudabasa a village in Howrah 

district). 

[13] Nowgong Copper-plate of Bala-varman of Pragjyoti§a 
c. 975 A.C. [Padmanatha Bhattacaryya, Kamarupa-sasanavali, 
pp. 71 ff. ; A. R. Hoernle, JASB., 1897, pp. 285 ff.]. 

The word Kop pa m - Bengali Kopa C?fH slash, dig [cf. 
also Kopa, Kopi C^*tl, found in the place-names as Sol- 

kopa Kalakopa (in Faridpur), Dakopa 

(in Khulna), Mandalakupi (in Midnapur)]. 

[14] Bangarh Grant of Mahipala; end of the 10th 
century. (R. D. Banerji, op. ciC, p. 76 ; Gau^-lekba-mala.) 
Gokalika-mandala. 

Villages Cuta-pallika, Karata-pallika, Hasti-pada. 



Q 


K. P. GOSWAMT 


Village Cavati (“modern Bengali Cati inn). Cf. the 
village-name Ca^i in Mymensingh. 

[15] Baladitya Inscription of the time of Mahipala ; 11th 
century. (“ Gauda-lekha-mala.”) Village Tailadl)aka (=modern 
Bengali Telara 

[16] Edilpur Copper-plate of SrI-candra-deva ; lOth-llth 
century A.C. (N. K. Bhatta^all, EP. IND., Vol. XVIII, 
No. 12, pp. 18J If. ; N. G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, 
III, pp. 166 ff.) 

Village Leli>a in Kumaratalaka rnandala (sub-division). 

Satata-padma-vati district (or yisaya) “a house on the 
bank of Padma.” 

[17] Eampal Grant of Sri-candra-deva ; Jst half of the 

11th century. (R. G. Basak, EP. INI)., XITI, pp. 136 ff. ; 
N. G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, HI. pp. 1-9 ) Nanya- 
mandala, visaya or district. Village Neha-Kasthi ( = Sneha 
Kasthika). Cf. the affix Kathi or Katin which is found 

largely in the place-names of South-West Vahga. (See 01>BL., 
p. 183.) 

[18] Dhulla Copper-plate of SrI-candra-deva. East Bengal. 

Unpublished. (N. G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, 
pp. 165 ff.) Village Durvva-pattra in Vallimunda rnandala 
(cf. Ballisura) in Khedira-valll-visaya where 

Khediravalli = (?) modern Khalil ; Loni}ajoda prastara ; 
Tivaravilli ( = modern TillT ); village Parkadimunda in Yola 
rnandala in IkkadasI visaya (where lkkadasl=piesent-day Eka^T 

). Village Mulapatra. 

[19] Sylhet Bhatera Copper-plate Inscription of Govinda- 

Kesava-Deva; 11th century (c. 1049 A.C.) (K. M. Gupta, 

EP. IND., Vol. XIX, No. 49, pp. 277 ff. ; M\I. Padraanatha 
Vid.\ avinoda, VSPdP., 1328, pp. 175 ff. ; Proceedings of the 
ASB., 1880, pp. 141 ff.) [In this plate, we get quite a long list 
of names of villages and rivers, which have still retained their 
original form, though some of them have undergone slight 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


9 


alteration.] Hat^a-pataka would give a modern Bengali form 
hatpara “ a village where a market is held ” (cf. the village 
named Hatpayabhum in Mymensingh). Badagama 

*= modern Badagan near Bhatera. Mahurapur is modern 
Maurapur. HadhI-thana (thana = 8thana). Degigana. Vara- 
pancala ■= modern Baram-cal or Brahma-cal. Siddava ; Ama- 
nata ; Gudavaylka ( = present-day Gudabhai). Kata-bacha {cf, 
Kata-Khala, the name of a Railway Station in Assam Bengal 
Railway ; there is also a river of this name in KSchar). 
Yithayi-nagara. Yodati tharka {cf. jorii (?rtv5l, pair). Valusi- 
gama ( = present-day Bausigama ; cf. also Bausi ^1^ a village 
in Mymensingh). Nava-chadI {cf. modern Noahati). Ka^diya 

(Kadiidiya) =(?) modern Kadaiya. Savaga-nayi ( = River Savaga). 
KaniyanI or KaliyayanT. Dr. K. M. Gupta says that it is 
the modern Kalain river near Kanihati on the border of Hill 
Tipperah. Yegamya-ganiya. Thava-sonti (*=? river). Prof. 

S. K. Chatterji suggests that the word is Sthapa-srotas + ika** 
modern Bengali v^tho I sota < Sonta (old Bengali) < MIA Sonta 
< OIA Srotas, “arrested stream’’ [see ODBL., p. 188]. 

Bhaskara-tenkari, probably Bhaskara bill. There is also a 
village named Bhaskara or Bhaskara-tehgarl in Tengra rnouja [c/. 
village-names ending in tikri and tenga C^1 as found in 
Kultikri (Miduapur), Kapasatikri (Bogra), 

Namtikri (Maldab). Jangaltehga and Gridan- 

tengaf^»rt!llW| (in Mymensingh)]. Natayana ; AnI-Kathi, Adana- 
Kathi (where Kathl« modern Katin ^ which occurs abun- 
dantly in the modern place-names of deltaic Bengal). [In this 
connection, it is to be noted that there was a confusion between 
the dental and cerebral sounds in Assamese as early as the 
9th-10th century and the old speech of Sylhet also shared in 
this habit. We find a word Pravista (with dental st) for 
Pravista in the Tezpur Rock Inscription of Harjara Varma. 
(See ODBL., p. 182.) Bhogadatta (personal name ?); Boba- 
eha^^ (probably the streamlet near Bhatera) ; Sata-kopa ( ** ? seven 
springs, cf. village-names containing kopa as their second parts in 



10 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


Central and West Bengal, e.g., Salkopa (Jessore), 

Tailakopa (Hughii). Nada-kuti-gama (=? Nalaku^i- 

grama, reed huts in a village) ; Hadi-gaAga (c/. modern Bengali 
Gang ’ll?? stream) ; Dhana-kundo-di (c/. Dhamayi or Dharaa- 
nadi) ; Bhata-pada (c/. village-name Bhat-para in 

24-Parganas) ; Chadlia-thana ; Haddipa-grha. Piapi-nagara ; 
Sihadava-grama (c/. Sihara a village in Mymensingb, 

and Burdwan). Sagara [c/. village-names Matisagara *!{%- 

(Faridpur) and Dhanasagara (Khulna)]. 

Pochaniya is probably the modern village Pohaniya. Sala 
Chapada (=? present-day Salcbapra, a Railway Station in 
A. B. Ry.) Parakona (=? modern Barakona) ; Akhalikula 
(*= present-day Akhailkula). Besides, villages Sughara, VarunI; 
Sarama = probably modern Surma river (?) on which Sylhet 
is situated. Kararagama = (?) modern Rarer grama. 

[20] Gauhati Copper-plate of Indra-pala of Pragjyotisa, 

c. 1050 A.C. (A. R. Hoernle, JASB., 1897, pp. 113 ff. ; Padma- 
natha Bhattacaryya, Kamarupa-^asanavall ” pp. 116 fit.) 
Hapyoraa visaya or district. Makkhiyana-villa ( = bil, marsh), 
cf. Machiyara (a village in Khulna). Kuntavita- 

Khambhava (where Khambhava = modern Bengali Khamba 
<Stambha, pillar); Makuti-Makkhiyana-hasI ; Kunlavita- 
lakkhyava. Village Kasl-pataka ; Svalpadyat, where Svalpa 
occurs as common initial element in place-names as Svalpa- 
bahirdiya (Khulna) ; Digumma, 

[21] Guakuci Inscription of Indra-pala-deva of Kama- 
rupa ; 11th century. [Padmanatha Bhattacaryya, Kamarupa- 
^asanavall, pp. 130 ff.] Mandi visaya or district. Pandarl 
(= ? modern Panduri). Village Vainamaka in Sabathi. Mark- 
kamyikokka ; Rajaputrapataka ; Makuti. Haharabijola {cf. 
modern place-names with endings Jol C^t®T, channel). 

[22] Silimpur Inscription of Jaya-pala of Kamarupa ; 
11th century. (R. G. Basak, EP. TND., XIII, pp. 283 ff.) 
Villages Balagrarna ; Sirisa-punja {cf. Akra pufiji 

a village in 24-Parganas) ; Kutumba-palll ; Tarkarl ; Siyambaka, 



PLACE-NAMES OP BENGAL 


11 


Saka^i (cf. modern place-name Sakatl *rt^ in Midnapur). 
Vaicunda, tank. 

[23] Bhuvaneshwar Inscription of Bhatta Bhava-deva. 
(James Prinsep and G. T. Marshall, JASB., Vol. VI, pp. 
88-97 ; Kajendra Lala Mitra, Antiquities of Orissa, Vol. II, 
pp. 85-87 ; F. Kielhorn, EP. IND., Vol. VI, pp. 203ff. N. G. 
Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, pp. 25-41). Villages 
Hastinibhitta (where bhitta occurs as bhiti or bhita 1%1&, 

in modern place-names), Siddhala and Vandya-ghatl in Eadba 
or West Bengal. 

[24] Belabo Grant of Bhoja-Varma-deva : East Bengal, 
11th century (Dacca Keview, Vol. II, No. 4, July, 1912 
K. D. Banerji, JASB., N.S., Vol. X, 1914, pp. 121 ff. R. G. 
Basak, Sahitya, 1319 B.S , pp. 382-99 and also in EP, IND., 
Xll, pp. 37fP. N, G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, 
pp, 14ff.). 

“Adhah-pattana-mandala” (where pattana is the name of a 
village in Tipperah ; cf. the place-name Adhpasa in 

Dacca). 

Kau^ambi-astagaccha (Astagaccha = Present-day Atgilcha 
‘eight trees’); village Upyalika. 

[25] Kamaull Grant of Vaidya-deva of Assam ; latter 
part of the 11th century. [A. Venis, EP. IND., II, pp. 348, 
Gauda-lekha-mala.] 

Hansa KoucI ( = Hahsa-l-Kraunca. Cf. Kraunca-Svabhra in 
9) Vada, Vada-Visaya. Villages Santi, Santi-vada {cf. modern 
place-name Santra ^^). Village Mandara (= ? Mandara,a tree), 
Kahsa-pala (the latter =pola C^ft^ which is found as common 
final element in the modern place-names of Bengal). 

Dig(b)-dandi-dhara (where Dig(h) = dirgha, long ; Dig(h) 
may also be connected with Persian dih found as (Jihi, di 
f® in modern Bengal place-names). Of. the village name 
Pandhara “holding of a stick” in Mymensingh. (See 

ODBL., p. 184.) 



.2 " K. P. GOSWAMi 

Village Singia (-SrngikrO-dhara. C/.Singia a village 

in Jessore. 

Longa-Vada (cf. the village name Lehra in Eajehahi). 

Kontu-Vada, Konto-hada (cf. Katra a village in 

Mymensingh). 

Navadhara (cf. modern Bengali nadbara <navadhara — youth- 
ful, graceful). Dhara sHTl is also found as common final element 
in place-names. 

Village gira-vada [c/. villages Siyara (Midnapur and 

Murshidabad) and Siora (Birbhum)]. 

gila-gudi (cf. giligudi ) 

Jaya-rati-pola ; Unai-pola (cf. modern Bengal Unai — 
spring, well) = spring field. (See ODBL,, p. 185.) 

Pipa-munda. [Munda is also found in modern place- 
names such as Bikalmunda (Midnapur), Mundamala 

(Kajshahi).] 

Ajhada-Cau-bola = treeless four fields. 

Vudhi-pokhiri = “ pond of the old woman.” 

Kula-Capadi (cf. modern Capri a village in Jessore). 

Nai-po^rhgarayo (where Nai = nadl). 

Lacebu-Vada (Beng. Lacba < MIA. laccha < Skt. 
rathya — street). (See ODBL., p. 185.) 

Village Ghata-Campaka 

Velavanipata-nava-pala 

Dhravolaya, a village. Cf. a village Doha OftSTl in Mymen- 
singh. 

Helavana-munda = head of the Hela wood. 

Eiver Nada-joll “flowing stream.” 

[26] Manahali Grant of Madanapala-deva ; c. 1108. 
North-Central Bengal [Gauda-lekha-mala ; N. N. Vasu, JASB. 
1900, I, pp. 66 ff ; E. D. Banerji, op. cit., p. 104.] 

Halavartta Mandala ; village Kastha-giri ; village Campa- 
hittbl ( = modern Bengali Campatl C/. also the village 

name Campatl in 24-Parganas). 

[27] Inscription of Isvara-ghosa of Phekkarl; Wes 



PLAGE-l^AMES OF BENGAL 18 

Beaga,!, 12th century. (A.. K. Miitra, Sahitya, Vai^akha and 
Jyai§tha, 1320 ; R. D. Banerji, Bahgalar Itihas, Vol. I, pp. 
301-302 ; N. Gr, Mazutndar ‘Inscriptions of Bengal’, III, pp. 
149ff.) 

Phekkarl (*= modern Bengali Phekur CU^). [Cf. Phehgari 
Cl?9r^, a village in Mymensingh. There is also a village Phu- 
kuriya in Ranisankail police station, Dinajpur district.] 

Piyolla Mandala. Gf. Palla a village in Dacca. Galli- 
tipyaka Visaya. Gf. Golla C’ttSlI, a village in Dacca. 

Digghasodlya (ya = ka) [ = dirgha + avasa + dvipaka] . Chan- 
davara. Gf. Candra and Chandra two villages in 

Jessore. 

[28] Puspabhadra Inscription of Dharmapala of Prag- 
jyotisa ; 12th century. [Padmanatha Bhattacaryya, Kamarupa- 
^asanavali, pp. 168 tf.; also Raugpur Sahitya Parisad Patrika, X, 
No. 2, 1322 San.] Village Khyati-puni [Puni is found in 
modern place-names, as Bauripuni (in Murshidabad), 

Corpuni (in Burdwan)]. 

Village Digdola. [Dola is also found in modern place 
names, as Amdola (Birbhum).] 

Puraji, visaya or district. 

Nokka (Nekka) devvarl-pala, where pala occurs in modern 
place-names as Dampala (Burdwan), Cuyapala 

(Midnapur) . 

Govabha-bboga-ali(pa)na. Bhoga also occurs in modern 
village-names. 

Village Khaggali [c/. modern Bengali Khagra'^’^51 (<Khag- 
ga < Kbadga)-f ali, reed-bank ]. River Camyala-joli (Camyala 
> Cammada = new Bengali Camra ? skin stream. 

Sovvadi (?rpRft “tank” ; Jau-galla, river, (where, Jaii < 
jatu-j-galla ; cf. New Bengali \/gal to melt) *= molten lac. 
River, Nekkadeull (c/. new Bengali Deul <devakula, temple (see 
ODBL., p. 185). Deul is also a village in Faridpur) 

Sihgarijoli, river. {Gf. Sihgra also Sihjoli two 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


14 ., 

villages in Jessore.) Dijjavatihari (?). (Gf. modern Bengali hayi 

<haddika.) 

River Bekka^uska. Avaiici ; Tliaisadobbhi (? tree). (C/. 
eww Bengali doba puddle.) 

Cakkojana (? tree) [Jana occurs as common final 

element in modern pl.vce-nanies of Bengal ; e.g , Goaljana 
WR (Mursbidabad), Satjana (Hugbli)]. 

Paralimunda [=Parul(i) tree. Skt. Patali 

and munda = mura '^] “ tbe foot of the parula tree.” Muijda 

is found in village-names as referred in [25]. River Dija- 
makkajola. 

Suvarna-daru-munda = Tbe foot of the Suvarna daru tree. 

Nokkanoda (cf. place-name Naora in Jessore). 

Mathurasvaltha munda = The foot of tbe Mathurasvaltha tree. 

[29] Subhankarapataka inscription of Dbarmapala of Prag- 
jyotisa ; 12th century. [Padmanatha Bhattacaryya, Kamarupa- 
^asanavall, pp. 146 ff.] 

Subhankarapataka . 

Kanjiakabhitvi. 

Sakbota {cf. place-names Sakita in Burdwan and 

Saora in Barisal.) 

Akhota=tree. 

A^vatha, tree ; Dijjinna, river. 

Locana ( = rocana, tree). 

Oriamma ( oriama tree) . 

"Vijaya^rl — noubhukta. 

Kantabakkai’a (= ? Kafithal tree). 

Oracosajola, river. 

Trees Lohuca, dumbarl (tbe latter durnura ) 

Jharipakati (cf. Pakati a village in 

Mymensingh). 

Brhadrabara (= ? personal name). 

[30] Amgachi Grant of Vigraha-pala. North-Central 
Bengal, Second half of the 11th century. [R. D. Banerji, 
VSpdP., 1323, pp. 233 ff.] 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


16 


Village Brahmam in Pimdra-vardhana-bhukti, Koti-varsa- 
vi^aya ; Krodan^i (c/. village-names Kurd, Kurca 
in Burdwan). 

Village Matsyavasa ( = abode of fisli) 

Chatra (c/. Khulna village Catra ; and dathar 
a village i n Dinajpur district). Village PosalT. 

[31] Barrackpnr Copper-plate of Vijayasena, l‘2th century. 
[R. D. Banerji, EP. FND., pp. 279 ff. R. G. Basak, Sahitya, 
Vol. XXXI (1328 B.S.), pp. 81 ff. ; N. G. Mazumdar, Inscrip- 
tions of Bengal, III, pp. 57-67.] 

Village Ghasa-samblnga Bbatta-vada (where Bhatta-vada 
present-day Bhatra ®t^). Khadi visaya (cf. modern Bengali 
Khari channel). Kantijonga 

Tiksa-handa, marsh. 

[32] Naihatl Copper-plate of Vallfilasena. Uttara Radha 
or Central Bengal; early 12th century. [R. D. Banerji, EP. 
IND., XIV, pp. 156 ff. A. K. Maitra, and R. G. Basak, 
Sahitya, Karttika and Agrabayapa, 1318 B.S. Tarak Chandra 
Roy, VSPdP., Vol. XVII, pp. 231-45. Banwarllal GoswamI, 

‘ PravasT ’ for Phalguna, 1317. N. G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions 
of Bengal, III, pp. 68 ff.] 

Village Valla-bitta ( = present-day Balutiya or Balnte 

near Sitahatl or Naihatl). Svalpa-daksina-vithI ( = Vithi). 
(The word Svalpa ^ occurs as common initial element in 
modern place-names of Bengal ) 

Singatia, river (cf. place-name SiAgutia in 

Mymensingh). 

Administrative district of Khandiyilla ( = modern Bengali 
Khanrule ; cf. also the modern village Khatundi within 

the same locality in Police station Ketugram). 

Village Nadica ( = present-day ^tf^) 

Village Ambayilla (cf. modern Bengali Arabalgram 

‘^Naddina” 

Villages ‘'^Kudumvama,” Auhagad(jliya,” where ga^diya 
occurs as guri in place-names. 



16 ' 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


Village Siirakona-gaddia-Kiottarali. [Of. the modern village 
names Talari and Keugurl near Naihatl in 

Police-station Ketugram, Dist. Burdwan.] 

Village Jalasotln (= water stream) is modern in 

Mnrshidabad. 

Moladandi (=present-day Murandi near the village 

NaihatT). 

Village Siraali (cf. the village name Siruli near NaihaH) 

Tarali ( = present-day Talari 

[33] Govindapur Copper-plate of Lakstnanasena ; late 
12th century [West-Central Bengal]. (Prof Amulya Charan 
Vidyabhusana, Bharatavarsa, 1332 B.R., pp. 441-45. N. G. 
Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, pp..92 ff.) 

Vetaddachaturaka in Paficiraa-Khatikil within Vardhanamana 
bhukti (Burdwan district). ^'etadda = modern Bengali Betara 
CW5. Lengha-deva mandapi; Viddara-^asana. 

[34] Tarpana-dighi Copper-plate of Laksmanasena. Late 
12th’ century. (E. V. Westmacott. dASB., Vol. XLIV (1875), 
Part I, pp. 11 ff.; EP. IND., Vol. XII, pp. 6 ff. ; N. G. 
Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, 99 ff.) 

Nica-dahara, tank, '‘low and deep.” [Cf. modern place- 
names with endings dahara, daharl as Bagdahara 

(Murshidabad), Beledahari (21-Parganas) 

Saldahari (Midnapur)] . 

Nandiharipakundi [»»the tank or spring belonging to 
Nandi Haripa(da)]. 

Mollana-Khadi. The ditch belonging to Mollana. [Cf. 
Perso-Arabic mulla; also mollana>mrnala “lotus stalk ’’ 
(see ODBL,, p. 187).] 

Village Velahisthi in Varendri within the Pundra-Vardhana- 
bhukti. 

[35] Madhai-nagara Grant. North-Central Bengal, 12th . 
century. [K. D. Banerji, JASB., Vol. V (1909), pp. 467ff. 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 17 

N, Q-. Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, pp. 106ff.] 
Village Dapuniya-pataka (cf. place-name Dapuniya in 

Myoiensingh) . Kantapura ; Gayanagara ; Chadaspasa-pataka ; 
Gun^i-sthira-pataka. Gundl-dapaniya. 

[36] Anulia Copper-plate of Laksmana-sena ; Central 
Bengal, 12th century. (A. K. Maitra, JASB., Vol. LXIX, 
Part I, 1900, i, pp. Glff ; N. G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions of 
Bengal, III, pp. 81ff.) Matharandiya-khanda-ksetra in the 
district of Vyaghra-tati. 

[Jalapilla ; SantigopT-^asana. Malamanca-vati (cf. modern 
Bengali Malancabarl flower-garden house).] 

[37] Sundarban Copper-plate of Laksmana-sena, Central 
Bengal, 12th century. [Pandit Raingati Nyayaratna, Bahgla- 
bhasa 0 Saliityavisayaka Prastava, Chinsurah, San 1294, pp. 
32-5-327, Hiranmaya Mukherji, Mitrodaya, Vol. I, No. 6, p. 37. 
Kailash Chandra Singha, Bharatl, Vol. IV, pp. 495-62. N. G. 
Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, pp. 169 £f.] 

Khadi district in Pundravardhana. 

Villages — Kan-talla-pura ; Santya-^avi. 

Mendala-gratna ; Citadl-khata (of. Citurl a village in 

Birbhum). 

[38] The Saktipur Copper-plate of Laksmana-sena. 
West Bengal, 12th-13th century. (Rarnes Basu, VSPdP., Vol. 
XXXVII, pp. 216 ff. ; Dliirendra Chandra Ganguli. EP. IND., 
Vol. XXI, No. 37, pp. 211 ff.) Kumarapura Caturaka. 

Kumbhinagara. Kaiikagrama-bhukti . 

Barahakona (*=? modern Barakona). 

Ballihita (cf. valla-hitta of Naihati Sasana, see 32)=modern 
Baln(iya or Balute, I 

Nij ha-pataka (= ? Niraa-pataka) 

Bhaga4i-Kha nda-Ksetra . 

Accha ma-gopatha . 

Raghava-ha^^a-pa^aka. 

1346BJ.-8 



K. P. QOSWAMI 


ii ' 

. Maliku^da — where Ku^da occurs as common second part 

in place-names of Bengal. 

Mocanadi ; Langala-joli ; Cakaliyajoli. 

Parajana Gopatha. 

Tamara-bara ( = ? Damara-bara), cf. Bangalabapa. 
Bijaharapura pataka. 

Cbatra-pataka. (C/. a village Catra in Mymensingh.) 
[a9] Madanapada Gopper-plate of Vi^varupasena. (N, G. 
Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, pp. 132 ff. ; Nagendranath 
Basu, JASB., Part I, pp. 6-15) r2th-13th century, East 

Bengal. Village Pinjo-KasthI; village Atbapaga ( = Athapaka) ; 
Uficbokasthi ( = iificakathl, high 'wood); village Virakatti ; 
Narantapa. 

Village Barayi-pada (»= modern Bengali Baraipara 
quarter of betel-vine growers). 

[40] Calcutta Sahitya-Parisat Copper-plate of Vi^varupa- 
sena ; 12th-13th century. East Bengal. [MM. Haraprasad 
Sastrl, Indian Historical Quarterly, Vol. II, No. I, March, 1926, 
pp. 77-86 ; N. G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions of Bengal, III, pp. 
140 ff.] Ramasiddhi-pataka in the Navya region of Vanga in 
the Pundravardhana-bhukti. 

Village Vinayatilaka ; Ajikulapataka. Village Deulahasti. 
Lauhancla-caturaka ; Ghagharakattl-pataka in Urachaturaka. 
[Ijndradvipa ; Patiladivika. (Navasamgraha-caturaka.) 

[41] Edilpur Grant of Kesavasena ; East Bengal, 12tb- 

13th century. [R. 1). Banerji, Journal and Proceedings of 
the ASB , Vol. X, pp. 94-104; N. G. Mazumdar, Inscriptions 
of Bengal, III, pp. 118 ff.] Village Tala-pada-pa^aka (in 
Vikrampura in Vanga within Pundravardhana-bhukti). 
S^attrakadvi ( = dvipa). Sankara-pa^a {cf. modern Bengali word 
pa4a < par^aka *tt*n < side, quarter, occurring as 

common final element in village names of Bengal) ; Govinda- 
keli ; Bagullvillagada. 

[42] , Chittagong Copper-plate of 1243 A.C. [PrSpa- 
nath Pandit, JASB,, Vol, XLIII (1874), Part I, pp. 318£E. ; 



PLACE-NAMES OP BENGAL 


19 


N. G, Mazumdar, Enscriptions of Bengal, III, pp. 158flf.] 
Pambaradama (c/. Pangura a village in Pabna and 

Pobra C5t^5l in Faridpur) ; Kanaana-pindiyaka. KetaAgapala 
(cf. village-name Laupala in Kliulna) ; Lamba^asana ; 

Navrapalya ; Mrfcacchada ; where Ccbada is found as Ohara 
in names (e.g., ikchara in Midnapur). Bagha-pokhira. 



CHAPTEK II 


Every village name lias got a meaning behind it — either 
expressed or disguised. It must have a history. With the 
name of a village the ancient history of the place may be closely 
connected. In course of time, the real nature of a name 
tends to be corrupted through phonetic change, and then it 
becomes rather difficult to get at the true meaning of the village. 
Most of the modern Bengal place-names which have come 
down to us through wears and tears of centuries have certainly 
changed a great deal of their original forms, and sometimes 
it has become very difficult even to determine the proper line 
of their modification. In order to have the real meaning of 
the village, we must look to the early history of the place. 
But it is to be regretted that there have not been found any 
authentic records by which we can judge the modifications 
of the names and consequently the early history in connec- 
tion with the village name is also shrouded with mystery. 
No systematic work on this subject has yet been done, only 
a few scholars have touched upon it. Professor S. K. 
Chatterji in his “ Origin and Development of the Bengali 
Language” has shown the importance of the study of place- 
names from Linguistic, Anthropological and Historical points 
of view and his discussion on the older place-names from 
Inscriptions found in Bengal and Assam is a marvellous 
treatment. The preliminary things for doing any work on 
the “Place-names of Bengal” is to get in hand authentic 
lists of names of villages and other inhabited places as 
well as of rivers and the like. For this purpose, we have 
to examine the Kevenue Survey lists, the Post-office UstSt 



PLACE-NAMES OP BENGAL Sf 

the Railway Station lists, the District Gazetteers and similar 
works. Among these sources, the Post-office lists and the 
Railway Station lists give improper English transcriptions 
of Bengali names. So, practically, these lists are of very 
limited use to us. The names of villages that are available 
in the Jurisdiction lists of the Survey Office have been 
preserved both in English and Bengali scripts and probably 
with much accuracy and precision than the other sources. But 
instances are not rare where one can detect wilful attempts 
on the part of some Settlement Officers to give the names either 
a Sanskritic look or to change them according to the English 
orthography. Hence, the ignorance of these people has often 
led to unpardonable mistakes. So, every precaution must be 
taken in order to avoid this pitfall as far as practicable. 

As these lists of village names embracing thousands of 
them are not available to the outside public, they have been 
mainly taken from the Jurisdiction lists of the Survey Office. 
But the Survey Office lists of village-names of a few districts 
are partly available only in English characters, without any 
diacritical marks. This means that one cannot be quite sure 
of the original form in each and every case. In order to trace 
the Bengali source forms, the names occurring therein must 
be verified by local people as to the proper pronunciation. 
There are about one lakh of villages in Bengal but we are 
not concerned witli all of them. Names which are of 
Aryan origin do not trouble us much. We are to deal 
mainly with those names which are tadbhava and of non- 
Aryan Origin. A few place-names of the districts of Sylhet, 
Manbhum, Singbhum, Purnia, Hajarlbag and Santal 
Parganas have been included in this work, as these districts 
practically form part of Bengal both linguistically and 
racially, from the very earliest times, although they now 
politically belong to the provinces of Assam and Behar. 
Only a few important place-names are found in the District 
Gazetteers and they have also been written in English chairac- 



22 ♦ 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


ters. Sometimes there has been made a feeble attempt to 
trace the origin of some names, but often with futility. 

As a matter of fact, the English spelling of several important 
places, Eailway stations, district and sub-divisional towns 
often are unconsciously influencing the actual pronunciation. 
Thus Saktigar is generally heard as Saktigar owing to the 
English form Saktigarh. 

In some cases, the English mode of writing has completely 
changed the proper spelling. Thus “Bandel” has become 
Byandel [bsendel] . The word is a Portuguese modification of 
the Persian word bandar, “port.” Kafithi frequently becomes 
Contai. Catgan has become Chittagong [Citagang] . 

The standard Bengali form is Catigao, locally Saittaen. Cucura 
has been transformed into Chinsura Similarly Medini- 

pur is written and often pronounced Midnapur. 


In this connection, the following instances may also be 
noticed, how English mispronunciation and improper English 
transcription of Bengali (and other Indian) names influence the 
original forms : — 

T>-~ • - tj / EB. baruirdza 

Banrurjja 

For Bsenarjji 


Caturjya 
For Csetarjji. 


EB. teatuirdze(a) 
tsaduirdze(a) 
^ Cal. c.4atuj^e 


Similary Thakur is now written as Tagore [ ] 

owing to the English model of writing Tagore. 

Ignorance of local spelling is often responsible for very 
funny errors appearing in vernacular journals. Being repeatedly 
printed in newspapers, these wrong pronunciations and spellings 
are slowly modifying the actual pronunciations and spellings. 
Unless ruthlessly checked, this kind of irresponsible journalism 
will very soon make a havoc of modern Bengali place-names. 
A few examples are given below : — “Daihat” is written in Roman 
script as Dainhat which is retransliterated as and some- 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


23 


times even as Dainhata. “Nastra” (24-Pargaaas), “Patuair” 
(Mymensingh) are written as Natra and Patuair which 
are often pronounced as Natra and Patuair This 

bad habit of writing the Bengali names after English fashion 
may be seen from the examples given below : 

“Bangan” is written as Bahgag Similarly 

“Goaltor” (Midnapur), “Dakop” (Jessore), 

“Betagair” (Mymensingh), “Dulla” (Mymensingh), 

*‘Deodukun” (Mymensingh), "Puaigan” (My- 
mensingh), “Gotasia” C5tt$tf%?ll, “Ourail” are written in 

Roman character as Goaltor, Dakop, Betagair, Dulla, Deodokan, 
Duaigan, Gotasia, Aurail, respectively through which they are 
retransliterated as 

and Besides English and other 

foreign influence, the place-names of Bengal have also been modi- 
fied to some extent due to a Sanskritising tendency. Gano (^fbs), 
or Gan ( ^ ), Bari Da ifl are often changed into Gram (i5JtN), 
Batl (^^) and Daha, c.g., “Baniagauo” (^tf^^'S), ^‘Naya- 
gaofi” (sBllfr'3), “Naycabari”, ( ) and “Cakda” (5t^) 
are written as Banlgrara ( ), Nutangram ( ), 

Nutanbatl ( ) and Cakradaha (F1P?5) respectively. 

Bhatpara ( ) is written as Bhattapalll ( ), 
although para ( *t^5l ) comes from pataka ( ) and not from 

palll ( ), as is generally thought of. (See PravasI, Alvina, 

1317 B.S., “Bangla Gramer Nam” by Jogeshchandra Roy 
Vidyanidhi.) Gutaura ( ) (a village in Tipperah) is 
sometimes written as Gautaraapara ( ). Similarly 
^‘Kalikata” ( ) and “Jorasanko” take the form 
“Kallksetra (^t^tCWi) and Yugmasetu ( ) respectively. 

“Atgharia” ( ) and “Maijpara” ( ) are written 

as Astaghari ( ) and Madhyapalli ( ) . The name of 
the district town “Silet” ( ) has been changed into Srlha^ta 
( ^^ ). The village name “Gophan” ( C^tl^ ) [GoFan] in 
Tipperah district is written as Gokarna ( ) ; “Manasiri” 
> and “Tiiukrakopa” (^t^^C^*tl) two villages- in 



24 


K. P. QOSWAMI 


>^jiaensin^h have been Sanskritised to Mana^rl (Jltstl) and 
'T/jakurakona Similarly there are many names found 

throughout Bengal which have been modified in this way. Still, 
they are of great importance to Lingaisticiaus, as they indicate 
the line of change in the phonetics of these names and help to 
farm some idea about the genuine old form. 

The following elements are found in the place-names of 
Bengal — Tatsama, Semi-tatsaina, Tadbhava, Perso-Arabic, De^i 
{i.e , names of aboriginal and unexplained origin) and a few 
foreign words, Tatsama or Sanskrit names do not present any 
difficulty. Although the bulk of the modern place-names of 
Bengal are of Aryan origin, yet there are thousands of names 
which are Prakrit and non- Aryan words (or we may better call them 
as names of doubtful origin and obscure in meaning also) as their 
components. These words are mostly in mutilated forms and 
make the crux of the subject. It is (juite possible that some 
of these names are of Aryan origin only obscured by heavy 
phonetic change. In many cases, names which are not of Aryan 
origin, are exceedingly difficult, sometimes impossible with the 
present stage of our knowledge to account for. There are again 
some names which can be explained most satisfactorily, when 
we approach them from the standpoint of non-Aryan, Dravidian 
Kol and Tibeto-Burman . 

We do not know, what kind of speech was current before 
the coming of the Aryan tongue in Bengal. As we find a 
large number of Dravidian, Kol, Tibeto-Burman and other 
words of un(‘xplained origin in the vocabulary of Bengali 
language as well as in the place-names, it can be asserted that 
the Pre-Aryans of Bengal were certainly influenced both in 
blood as well as in tongue by the Dravidians and Kols who 
lived in the western borders of the Bengal area and by the 
Tibeto-Burmani people living in the northern and eastern fringes. 

In the old Bengali inscriptions, dating from the 5th century' 
A. 1)., we have names of villages, rivers and other places recorded 
which throw a valuable light on the history of Bengali Toponomy 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


2f 

and incidentally on the question of a non-Aryan substratum in the 
people and culture of Bengal. It is gratifying to note that in 
a few instances, we have fuller forms of these names preserved 
in old Inscriptions. A village called Balutiya or Balu^e 

at the present day was known as Ballahitta or Ballihita 
in the 12th century (vide Naihatl Copper-plate of Ballala 
Sena and Saktipur Copper-plate of Laksmana Sena). Pabna 
was something like Pawubanna (written Paduvanva) 
in the 11th century or Brahma-Cala was Barawancala (written 
Varapancala) in the 9th century. Similarly Kharjuli 
was Khaddajotika, Mahara or Maora N3551, was Madhu- 

vataka, Bakta was Bakkataka and Karorl was 

Kaddavira in the 6th century, as we find from the Malla-sarul 
Copper-plate Inscriptions of Gopa [Chandra] and Vijaya 

Sena. 

Similarly, other place-names from the Inscriptions make 
it quite clear that we had to deal with a local nomenclature, 
which is in many cases non-Aryan. We have as elements in 
the old place-names of Bengal words like Jola, Joli, Jota, 
Jotika, hitti, Bhitti, viti, hist(h)i, gadda, gaddi, pola, vola ; 
and probably also handa, kunda, Kundi, Cavati, Cavada and 
Vada and many others, which can be explained as of Dravidian 
or Kol origin. From these names, we get quite a conclusive 
idea regarding the prevalence of non-Aryan languages in ancient 
Bengal. The possible non-Aryan elements may be traced in the 
following modern Bengali place-names. 

Modern Bengali Place-names with the endings [Jola], 
[Joli], [Jota], [Jotika] meaning channel, water-course, river, 
water are quite abundant specially in the districts of West 
Bengal. (See, ODBL., pp. 65-67.) 

[Jol] CWt*! “Channel” (Dravidian Jota). It is found in 
Kandh as “jorr”. [C/. also Assamese Jol water.] The 

word Jota is found in the Khalimpur Grant of Dharmapala. 
(See 9.) A few names with “Jol” CWH as their common 
final elements are given below ; — 
l24{IBJ-4 



26 


K. P, GOSWAMI 


Thus, [Sonajol] C’Tf'ttC^ (Hughli, Maldah) [Hug., Mai.] 
[Sihjol] (Jessore) [Jes.] 

[Puiltijol] (Murshidabad) [Mur.] 

[Kafikrajol] (Hug.) 

[Dhobajol] (Birbhuiu) [Bir.] 

[Narajol] (Midnapur) [Mid.] 

[Bagajoi] (Bankura) [Ban.] 

[Ainjola] (Bir.) 

[Laksmijola] (Mur.) 

[Camarjol] (Mai.) 

[Gajol] (Mai.) 

[Joli] CWt<^ ( = Dravidian Jotika).. 

Names ending in Joll or Jull are also found in 

tlu' districts of West Bengal, e.g., 

[Kbarjull] (Burdwan) [Bur.] 

[Taljuli] [Mid.] 

[Daksinajull] (Mid.) 

[Kaijuli] (Bir.) 

Dravidian [Jota] and [Jotika] occur also as [Jora] C^Tt^, 

[Jora] CWt^l or [Jura] [Juri] <^1% or even as [Juria] 

[The words Jota and Jotika are found in the Ki)alimpur grant 
of Dharmapala.] 

They occur everywhere in Bengal. 

Thus, [Pabiajor] (Mymensingh) [Mym.] 

[Dapnajor] (Myra.) 

[Hailjor] (Dacca) [Dac.] 

[Kakjor] (Dac.) 

(It is to be noted in this connection that as most of the 
East Bengal dialects change “0” to “U”, “Jor” CBTt® is often 
written as Jur '^.) 

[Sin jor] (Khulna) [Khu.] 

[Mulajor] (24-Pargana8) [24-P.] 

[Hetaljor] (Mid.) 

[Saljor] *11*1^1^ (Howrah) [How.] 

[Amlajora] (Bur.) 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


21 


[Saljora] (Mid.) 

[Bhurjora] (Bir.) 

[Nlljora] (Bankura) [Ban.] 

[Bakaljora] (Mym.) 

[Biljora] (Mym.) 

[Ingarjora] (Dae.) 

[Banajora] (Barisal) [Bar.] 

[(7/. also (Jorasafiko) “river-bridge” Sauskritised as Yugma- 
setu to mean “double-bridge” (see ODBL., p. 66).] 

( Juri ) 

[Khaliyajuri] (Mym.) 

[Balijuri] (Mym., Bur.) 

[Kaijuri] (Dac.) 

[Puntijuri] (Paridpur) [Par.] 

[Amrajuri] (Bar.) 

[Phulaijuri] (Tipperah) [Tip.] 

[Bainjuri] (Chittagong) [Chi.] 

[Sirnjuri] (Bur., Bir.) 

[Kukrajuri] (Mid.) 

[Kunjajuri] (Mid.) 

[Tamaijurj] (Mid.) 

[Arajuri] (Ban.) 

[Paiijuri] (Ban.) 

[Kuraljuri] (Bir.) 

[Nekrajuria] (Bur.) 

[Kharjuria] (Ban.) 

[Garjuria] (Ban.) 

The sufi&xes [Jhor] or [Jhora] C^ttTl of modern 

place-names may also be compared with Kannada “Joru”, drip, 
flow, trickle. [See ODBL., pp. 65-67.] 

Thus we have : 

[Burijhor]^?^?:^ (Mid). 

[Kharujhor] (Ban.) 

[Asaujhor] (Ban.) 

[Muriajhora] (Far.) 



K. P. G08WAMI 


28 

[Karnajhora] (Mym.) 

[Safikojhora] (Jalpaiguri) [Jal.] 

[Singijhora] (Darjeeling) [Dar.] 

Dravidian (B)hitti is found in modern Bengali in the form 
of '*Bhiti” or “Bhita” homestead, homestead land. 

{Gf. Tamil Vidu, Vittu, house.) Hitti, bhitti, occur in a few 
village names in old inscriptions (see Khalimpur Grant of 
Dharmapala), e.g., Campa-hitti (-histi), Hastinl-bhitta, Villa-histi 
(where (it is Sanskritised as st), Pindara viti. 

Place-names ending in bhiti or bhita are found 

almost in every district of Bengal, e.g., 

[Corerbhita] (Mym.) 

[Hiribhita] (Mym.) 

[Banbhita] (Bogra) [Bog.] 

[BaiigabhitajTtVll^^l (Mai.) 

[Bhogbhita] (Dar.) 

[Jugibhita] (Dar.) 

[Kariabhita] (Khulna) [Khu.] 

[Batibhita] (Khu.) 

[Betbhita] (Jes.) 

Gadda, gaddi and gudi are found in Auha-gaddi, Sura-KoniU 
gaddi, Sila-gudi in inscriptions. We may compare them with 
Telugu “gadda” and Kannada “gadde,” lump, mass, clot; 
bank, brink, edge. (See. ODBL., pp. 66-67.) 

Dravidian gadda, gaddi are found as “ gura ” or “ guri ” 
in the modern place-names w'hich occur generally in 
North Bengal (cf. also modern Bengali Kuura ^*t5, heap). 
“Guri ” may also be a variant of “Kunra ”. Thus we have, 
[Bhalaguri] (Rangpur) [Ran.] 

[Bairatiguri] bnftf^'^% (Jal.) 

[Jalpaiguri] (Jal.) 

[Biunaguri] (Jal.) 

[Simulguri] (Jal.) 

[Dhabalguri] (Jal.) 

[Ballalguri] (Jal.) 



PLACE-NAMES OE BENGAL 


29 


[Baugup] (Dar.) 

[Pouhagufi] (Par.) 

[Mandlaguri] (Par.) 

[Pumriguri] (Par.) 

[Tetulgufi] (Par.) “ The foot of a tamarind tree.” 

“ Pola ” and “ Vola ” with which may be compared Telugu 
“Polamu” field, cornland, and Kannada “Polal” field, are 
also found in the place-names of Bengal, (See OPBL., pp. 
66-67.) These words also occur in early Bengal in names 
like Jayaratl-pola, Unai-pola, Ajhada-Cau-Vola, Phra-Vola. 
Modern Bengal place-names with these endings may also 
be cited. They are found in central and west Bengal. Thus, 

[Piplapol] (Khu.) 

[Pala^apol] (Khu.) 

[Benapol] (Jes.) 

[Altapol] (Jes.) 

[Petrapol] (Jes.) 

[Pa^apol] (Jes.) 

[Jogipol] (Jes., 24-P.) 

[Mocpol] C^rtK^ (24-P.) 

[Gilapol] (Nadia) [Nad.] 

[Satyapol] (Nad.) 

[Gurepol] (How.) 

[Bagatapol] (Bar..) 

Besides, we have such names as [Ka^iabhol] and 

[Kapatibhol] occurring in the district of Midnapur, 

where ” bhola ” might be compared to vola, and pola. 

Tamil “andai,” vicinity, raised side of a field, boundary 
may be compared to a new Bengali word “bakanda” 
occurring in the place-names such as [Chotahakanda] 
and [Gujihakanda] in the district of Midnapur. 

[Kun^a] ^'0, [Kunda] ^'91, and [Kun^i] (and most 
probably the new Bengali word Kufira heap, little hillock, 

dunghill) are connected with Telugu Konda meaning hill, rock. 



80 


K. P. aOSWAMi 


Modern place-names with these endings are found almost in 
every district of Bengal, 

[Dhalkunda] (Dac.) 

[Pankunda] (Dac.) 

[Laruakunda] (Dac.) 

[Solakunda] C*rW^'0 (Far.) 

[Sitakunda] (Chi.) 

[Tailakunda] (Pab.) 

[Muriakunda] (Mai.) 

[Suryyakunda] (Jes.) 

[Agrakunda] 'STtiSTf^'O (Nad.) 

[DebakundaJ (Bur., Mur.) 

[Bilaikunda] (Mid.) 

[LMkunda] (Mid.) 

[Tukuniakundu] (24-P.) 

[Gholkunda] (Ban.) 

[Nakunda] (Hug.) 

[Mankundu] (Hug.) 

[Kamarkundu] (Hug.) 

[Paharkundu] (Hug.) 

[Galkunda] (Mym.) 

[Dhankunda] (Dac.) 

[Kanaitkunda] (Raj.) 

[Laukunda] (Jes.) 

[Bhurkunda] (24-P., Mur., Bur., Hug., Ban.) 

[Ulku^da] (Bur.) 

[Pumurkunda] (Mid.) 

[Deulkunda] (Mid.) 

[Kockunda] (Ban.) 

[Tu^kunda] (Bir.) 

[Mirkundi] (Dac.) 

[Sitaikundl] (Far.) 

[Pradhankundl (Raj.) 

Bhatkundl] (Raj.) 

Laksmikundl (Pab.) 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 31 

[Patharkundi (Mai.) 

[CaulkundlJ (Mid.) 

[Dudbkundi] (Mid.) 

[Khalisakimdl] (Nad.) 

[Kaliakundi] (Jes.) 

[Ujalkuftra] (Khu.) (It is to be noted in this 

connection that “ Kunra ” tn iy also come from Sanskrit 
Kuta highland.) 

[Sonakunra] (?rt*lt*^ (Khu., Jes., Bur., Far., Bar.) 
[Masjidkufiya) (Khu.) 

[Nidhkufira] (Nad.) 

[Astikunra] (Bur.) 

[Rajkunra] (Dac.) 

[Mankufira] srf^is (Raj.) 

[Pichlakunri] (Mym.) 

[Kakiakufiri] (Mym.) 

[Solakunri] C^rrsitffe (Dac.) 

[Altakunri] (Far.) 

[Kaickunri] (Far.) 

[Tiorlrufiri] (Raj.) 

[Maikunri] (Raj-) 

[Kockunri] (Raj., Bog.) 

[Maguakunri] (Raj.) 

[Ekarkunri] (Raj.) 

[Nuniakunri] (Din.) 

[Sihrakunri] (Din.) 

[Jhinaikunri] (Din. Mai.) 

[Bhadaikunri] (Bog.) 

[Ounkunri] (Khu.) 

[Pickunril HFffi (Bur.) 

[Khudkuftvi] (Bur.) 

[Caulkunri] (Mid.) 

[Balikuuri] (How.) 

[Khayrakufiri 1 (Bir.) 

[Simlakunfi] (Bir.) 



32 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


[Belekufiri] (Ban.) 

[Kalakufiri] (Ban.) 

The word [Cati] lodge, posthouse comes from Cava^T, 

Capati, Cavada (c/. Telugu and Kannada Cavadi). 

[Catl or Cadi] 5^ ^ 5^ is also a village in Mymensingh. 

The words [daha] and [da] *f| found as common second 

part or suffixes are also of Austric origin (c/. Munda ‘Ma” 
water) . One thing, however, is to be noted in this connection 
that the tadhhava form daha<hrada may have exerted some 
semantic influence on the Kolarian word “da,” e.g., 

[Cakda] FfWl (Dac.) 

[Halda] TOl (Jes.) 

[Neoda] (24- P.) 

[Naoda] SI'S!!! (Mur., Bur.) 

[Behgda] (?m1 (Mid.) 

[Saharda] >lt^1 (Mid.) 

[Makarda] (How ) 

[Jugda] (Ban.) 

[Amuda] (Tip.) 

[Dhalda] (Mai.) 

[Parandaha] (Khu.) 

[Ahgardaha] (Jes.) 

[Khardaba] (24 P.) 

[Damurdaha] (How.) 

[Satidaha] (Hug.) 

[Sabaldaba] (Mur.) 

Names containing the retroflex sound (r) are often 

liable to mis-spelling and mispronunciation owing to tlie fact 
that there are nj means of transliterating this sound in Roman 
[though rh (^) is sometimes written as (rh)]. The fact that 
the retroflex sound is unknown in many dialects of Bengal has 
added farther to the confusion. Place-names ending in [ra] ^ 
are found plentifully all over Bengal. The nature of these names 
is so much complex that it is a very intricate problem in Indian 
Linguistics to find out the real line of their solution. Of course, 



place-names of BENGAL 


88 


a few names may be explained as having some connection with 
Dravidian Vada, or Kol word Orak “house.” To cite some very 
well-known names — 

[Dadra] (Mym.) ; [Bagura] ^^*51 (Mym., Jes,, Bog.) 
[Kaora] ^'8'5l (Mym., Due.) ; [.Acra] ^5^ (Myra.) ; [Jajira) 
irrfW^l (Due.) ; [Matnura] (Dac.) ; [Indra] (Dac.) ; 

[Hasara] (Fir.); [Pa^ara] <tr»rt^ (Par.) ; [Saora] 

(Far., Bar.) ; [Aora] (Bar.) ; [Jhatra] (Bar.) ; 

[Sacra] (Bar.) ; [Tatra] (Tip.) ; [Jaora] 

(Tip.) ; [Jliikura] (Tip.); [Haora] (Tip., How.) ; 

[Papurii] (Noa.) [Pliaofa] ^'8^1 (Nao.) ; [Balora] 

(.N'ao.) ; [Oklira] (Chi.) ; [Bhohgra] (Chi.) ; 

[Pornrii] (Clii.) ; [Suhkna] (Raj.) ; [Cinra] 

(Raj.) ; [KayraJ (Raj.) ; [Qkhra] (Mai.); [Dhobra] 
(Mai.) ; [Jhrinjra] (Mai.) ; [Sihgra] f>r5r5l(Din ) 

[•lhapra] (Din.); [Chiindura] (Din.); [Caora] 

(Kim.'' ; [LIkbra] (Khu.) ; [Thekra] (Khu.) 

[Makra] (.Jes ) ; [Babra] ^Jes.) ; [Bhatra] 

(.Jes., Mytn.) ; [Bahkura] (Jes., Ban.) ; [Netra] 

(‘24-P.); [Jojra] (24-P.) ; [Akra] (24-P.) ; 

[Tyagra] (Hug.) ; [Sorara] (Hug.); [Gutra] '®W| 

(Hug.); [.Adra] (How.); [Kulora] (How.); 

[Gohgra] (Nad.) ; [Gobra] (Nad.) ; [Gatra] 

(Nad.) ; [tiilora] (Mur.) ; [Ojhra] (Mur.) ; 

[Motara] (Mur.) ; [Reora] Cil'S^ (Bur.); [Ulara] 

(Bur.); [Budra] (Bur); [Ikra] (Bir.) ; [Kutura] 

(Bir.) ; [Pliamra] (Bir.) ; [Gogra] (Ban ) ; 

[Besara] C^STSl (Ban.); [Radra] ilIWi (Ban.); [Cencura] 0^ 
(Mid.); [Sagra] (Mid.); [Nasra] (Mid.); [Pherura] 
C?F?P^ (Mid.) ; [Hadira] (Mid.), etc. 

But the following names may also be explained as of OIA 
origin. Thus, 

[Bkra] ( = Ekavataka) “a unit settlement” 

[Agra] ^9^51 ( = Agravataka) “a forward settlement” 

[Atra] «rt^5l (« Astavataka) “eight settlements” 

1245BJ.— 5 



34 . 


K. P. GOSWAMX 


[Satra] JTlWl ( »= Saptavataka) “seven settlements” 

[Rajra] ( = Rajavataka) “a royal settlement” 

[KuljaJ ( = Kulavataka) “a family settlement” 

[Kaora] ( = Kakavataka) ” a nester roost of a crow.” 

[Goyara] C^fWsI ( = Gopavatraka) ” a cowherd settlement.” 
[Deyara] ( = Devavataka) “a god’s temple 

[Manra] (= Manavataka) (?) 

[Diyara] t^nr^Sl (=DvIvataka) “ an island settlement.” 

Place-names ending in [Sola] CHPl, [Sol&] [Suli] 

“channel,” “stream” are found abundantly in the districts 
of We-t Bengal, specially in Burdwan, Midnapur and Bankura. 
The word [Sola] O'ft^ is probably Dravidian. (C/. Jola, Joll 
in place-names.) 

Thus, we have [Asansol] (Bur.) ; [Siyar^ol] 

(Bur., Bar.); [Benasol] (Bur.); [Babiii^ol] 

(Bur.). The following names occurs in the district of 
Midnapur ; [Bhukibhukisol] ; [Phengai^nl] C^^Tl- 

C»rt^ ; [Jauri^ol] ; ITangasol] ; [Iliiigisol] 

[Bengaisol] ; [Pafijasol] ; [Kafikia- 

sol] ; [Pharrasol] [(’cku}a.<o]J ; 

[Junsol] [Bheduyasol] [Khayrasol] 

[Bhurkundisol] ; [Tyaiiras^ol] ; 

[Kunda^ol] ; But the village names [J^irarii^ol] 

[Phengasol] aF9tC*lt51; [Pheguya^ol] are 

found in Bankura district. [Benasuli] (Mid.); [Kol^uli] 

(Mid., Ban.) ; [Ledasuli] (Mid.) ; [Kuca^uli] 

(Mid.) ; [Kharikasuli] (Mid.) ; [Bele^uli] 

(Bir.) 

The place-names [Camupda] 15pl«1, and [Gomuiida] 
preserve “Munda” which is an Austric word. 

The names containing “Kol” c^q, “Kola” C^t®Tt are 
noticed in the different districts of Bengal. 

Thus, [Haikol] <'^(.‘?lq (Far.) ; Marjatkol (Far.) ; 

[Katakol] (Raj.) ; [Dhakrakol] (Raj.) 

[Sailkol] (Din.); [Hidaskol] (Pab.) ; 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


36 


[U^aikol] (Pab.) ; [Dhaoyakol] (Bog.) ; 

[Dhapakol] (Din.) ; [Nakol] (Jes.) ; [Ulakol] 

(Tes.) ; [Bhaukolj (24-P.) ; [Paraskol] 

(Mur.); [Keoyakol] (Mid.); [Ke^kol] 

(Ban.) 

[Gotkola] C’tl^^FtSTl (Mid.) ; [Gararkola] (Mid.); 

[Leluyakola] (Mid.); [BegunkolaJ 

(Bur.) ; [itaikola] 'SfT^t^^Ft^rt (Pab.) ; [Af^okola] 

(Bog.) ; [Pumurkola) (Mai.) ; [“Kol” or 

“Kola” C^t^Tl in the above place names, however, may have 
come from Sanskrit (t) “krora” neighbourhood, or (ii) 

“ kulya ” ^piTl, “ channel, stream.” | 

The word [bira] which is found as prefix in the place- 
names of Bengal is Santali, meaning forest. 

[Bira] “Forest” (Santali) e.g. ; [Bir^imul] 

(Bur.); [Birkota] (Mid.) ; [Birbandi] (Mid.); 

[Birjharia] (Mid.) ; [Birmasuka] (Pab.) ; 

[Birguchina] (Mym,); [Birbakhura] (Mym.); 

[Birbasunda] (Mym.) ; [Birgaila*] (Mym.) 

The word [bar] is most probably of Austric origin. 
(Of. Ho, barre.) 

To cite some names : [Barbaliya] (Mid.) [Bar- 

begunia] (Mid.); [Barbakra] (Mid.); 

[Barjasua] (Mid.); [Barmathurij (Mid.); 

[Barbakra] (Ban.). 

Words “Co” C51 or “Cu” g (in many cases “Co” and 
“Cu” have been confused) meaning water, which are found in 
some place-names, are of Tibeto-Burman origin. Curiously 
enough, it is to be noted that the village-names ending in 
“Co” or “Cu” are found only in the district of Tipperah. 

e.g., [Kaliaco] ; [Kalaco] tFtICBI; [Tho^arico] 

; [Garco] ’lOT ; [Papaco] ; [Sanico] mtol : 

.[Ranico] [Naraco] [Tirco] ; [Churico] 

\f^1; [Daracu] [Larucu] »lL5g, etc. 



g. P. GOSWAMt 


86 , 

A few names ending in “C^’ Fl or “Ci” are also found 
in some districts of Bengal. It is quite likely that these words 
are also of Tibeto-Burman origin. [Tibetan word “Ca means 
“ things.”] 

The following names may be cited : 

[Sanaica] (Tip.); [Bhabica] (Raj.); [Korea] 

^ (Pab.); [pahuci] (Mai.); [Karica] (Jes.) ; 

[Aoca] ^'SFl (Mur.) ; [Narica] (Bur., Hug.); [Kimca] 

(Bur.) ; [Sanca] *(Pl]5l (Hug.) ; [Deoca] (Ban ) ; 

[Baifica] ^ (Nad.), etc. 

Some place-names show duplication of the same word, 
e.g.i [Kolkol], [Bmlbud], [Damdam], 

[Bajbaj], etc. These names are mostly of non-Aryan 

origin; their derivation is often obscure. 

Many Perso-Arabic words are also found in the place-names 
of Bengal. Mahomedan rule over the greater part of India was 
responsible for this. The followiiig cases may be discussed. 

“Abad” (Persian) “Populated.” Names with “Abad” 

as their common final part are found almost in every 
district of Bengal. 

As, [Isuabad] [Myni.], [Nizamabad] 

(Mym.) ; [Isakabad] (Dac.); [Mansurabad] 

(Far.); [Jaharabad] (Bar.); [Haidrabad) 

(Tip.) ; [HasnabadJ (Noa., ‘24-P.) ; [Agrabad] ^.3tPrt*r 

(Chi.); [Jahanabad] (Raj., Bir.); [Elababad] 

(Mai.) ; ArahgMiad] (Pab.); [Raiigilabad] ?f^M- 

^ (24-P.); [Jaynabad] (Nad.) ; [Pbakirabad] 

(Jes., Nad.) ; [Isupbabad] (Bur.) ; [Aminabad] 

(Mur.) ; [Hosenabad] (Hug.); [Mediabad] 

^ (Bir.); [Gairabadj (Ban.); [Paisabad] 

(Ban.) 

“Araji” cultivated land (Persian Irazi). 

[Arajibaikbir] (Far.) ; [Arajiboultali] 

(Bar.); [Arajisirail] (Raj-); [Ar5ji- 

manu8mara] '®lt?rt^*il^“t(*<l<i1 (Ran.) ; [Arajisakoa] 



i»LACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 37 

(jal.) ; [5.rajldumuria] (Khu.) ; [Arajinaakar- 

dbona] (Khu.); [Arajikaliman] 

(Jes.) ; [Arajlpunihar] (Jes.) ; [Arajisaikuli] 

(Mur.) ; [Arajinouasi] (Ho.w.) 

‘^Khana” (Persian Xana, place). 

[Pilkhana] (Bar., Mur.); [Kliagvakhana] 

^ftsrl (Bar.); [Kornkhana] (Nad.); [Meoakhana] 

C*l'QTlW<>ll (Mur .) ; [Padumkhana ] (Mid.) ; [Raut- 

khana] (Hug.); [Huangkhana] (Ban.). 

“Khurd” found also as Khord C«rt^ (Persian X’urd small). 
[Khurdankijanij (Myoi.) ; [Khurdjonail] 

CWtdf^^ (Myin.) ; [Khurddublasur] (Far.); [Khurd- 

bausa] (Raj.) ; [Khurdbatra] (Khu.) ; [Khurd- 

mandanabhog] (Jes.) ; [Khurdsihga] (24-P.); 

[Khurdbakhail] (Nad.) ; [Khurdbitra] (Bur.); 

[Khurdbahera] (Hug.). 

“ Jan " (contraction of the Persian word Zahan, world.) 
Bagiljan (Myiu.) ; [Poujan] (Mym.) ; [Ban- 

jan] (Far.) ; [Araujiin] (Tip.) ; [Baonjan] 

WFl (Pab.) ; [Ghorjan] (Pab.) ; [Batjan] (Hug.); 

[Ghughujan] (Ban.) ; [Goyaljan] C’TBlt^f^^ (Mur.). 

Similarly place-names containing “Jana” or “Jani(i)” 
as their final part are also found in every part of Bengal. 
Thus, [Khagarjana] (Mym.) ; [Ghuniajana] 

(Mym.) ; [Phailjana] ^^F51Wt»rl (Pab.); [BagjanaJ 
(Bog.); [Gobarajana] (Mai.); [Khagjana] ^^fwFd 

(Mur.); [Damujana] (Mid.). 

[Gaglajani] (Mym.); [Kaoaljani] 

(Mym.); [Camarjani] (Mym.); [Khalisajani] <tt^- 

(Dac.) ; [Pholjani] (Far.) ; [Tehgarjani] C^?rRt- 

irtf^ (Pab.); [Dabaijani] (Jal.); [Beljani] 

(Jes.) ; [Ruijani] (Jes.) ; [BafisSjani] (How.). 

“Pilii” (Persian dih, populated land.) 

[Pihipalasan] ( ^Pihipala^avanaj ^ (Bur.) ; 

[Pihigumai] (Mid.) ; [Daulat(Jihi] (Jes.) ; 



38 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


[Kajladihi] (Bur.); [Pathandiha] (Mid.) J 

[Uncudiha] (Mid.) 

“Dari'’ *rt% (Persian darra, passage.) 

[Darimahisdiya] (Khn.); [Dariumajurl] 

(Khu.); [Darighatai] (Jes.) ; [Dari^aldha] 

(Jes.) ; [Daricariakona] (Mym.) ; [Darikustliia] 

(Mym.) ; rDarikhojkliani] (Dac.) ; [Dari- 

padraabila (Far.); [Daribahorcar] (Bar.); 

[Dariharuki] (Bir.). 

{Gf. the village name Maruadari in Husangabad district 

in C.P. Marua is also an adjacent village.) 

“Pil” (Persian), “elephant’’. . 

[Pilkanja] tBog ) ; [Pilkhana] (Mur.) ; 

[Pilkhandi] (Mur.) ; [Pilsoya] (Bur.) 

“Band” (Pef'ian) “boundary line of a field or river’’. 
[Baudhaora] (Mym.); [Bandboula] 

(Mytn.); [Bandbetal] (Mym.) ; [Bandelangl] 

(Mym.); [Bandangariya] (Dac.). 

“Bajar’’ (Persian), “market’’. 

[Tejtaribajar] (Dac.); [Rajabajar] ?tWtTtWRr 

(Dac., Cal.) ; [Phiriiiglbajar] (Far.) ; [Katakabajar] 

(Par.); [Magbajar] (Chi ); [Kaksabajar] 

(Chi.); [Aminibajar] (Mur.); [Kumar- 

bajar] (B\ir.) 

“Bag” garden (Persian). 

[Baghata] (Myra.); [Bagsatra] (Dac.); 

[Bagbhaora] (Pah.); [Bagdokra] (Ran.) ; 

[Bagdol] (Mai.) ; [Bagdani] (Mid.) ; [Bag- 

picula] (Mid.); [Bagsina] ^Nf^(Bir.). 

The following hybrid forms may also be marked in the 
place names of Bengal ; 

[Daulatpur] (Khu.); [Morelganj] ; 

[NayabSd] (24-P.) ; [DaksinabSd] (Ban.); 

[iVIulakhSna] (Jes.); [CandrakhanaJ (How); 

[Gpurbajar] (Bur.); [Lalbajar] (Bur.); 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


89 


[Sundaradihi] (Bir.) ; [Khurdapurbapur] 

(Hufj.) ; [Khurdpalasi] (Nad.); [Darikj*snapur] 

(Far.) ; [Darisoma] (Dac.) ; [Bagdaba] 

(24-P.) ; [Baniyajan] (Myra.), etc. 

A few English words are also found in the place-names of 
Bengal ; but such names are extremely few. As, Diamond 
Harbour, Canning, etc. 

In at least one instance, a place-name originally from an 
English surname may have altogether lost its foreign appearance, 
viz., Canak>Charnock. 

Before analysing and classifying the place-names of Bengal, 
something must be said as regards their characteri.«tics. Quite 
a number of them are Pan-Indian. These names are tatsama 
words ending in “ Pura” ^?l, “Nagara” si’f?!, “Grama ” (SlPl, etc. 
Place-names containing certain I’erso-Arabic words such as 
“Abad” “Bazar” are also Pan-Indian. Owing 

to parallel development in phonology, some names containing 
tadbhava words also appear Pan-Indian. 

Bengal is predominantly a creation of the Ganges, the 
Dainodar and the Brahmaputra and as such, rivers are very 
important factors in life in Bengal. Therefore place-names 
containing words connected with river, navigation, etc., are 

peculiarly restricted to Bengal. Thus, the following words 

feature largely in place-names either as prefixes or as suffixes 
which are found generally in the deltaic Bengal, i.e., in the 
districts of Jessore, Khulna, Barisal> Nadia and to some extent 
in 24-Parganas also (see Ja^ohar-Khulnar Itihasa, by Satis 
Chandra Mitra, Part I, pp. 25-40, 123-148). 

Thus, [Diara] ; [Dvigahga] ; [Gabgani] 

; [Triraohana] ; [Candkhall] ; [Gadkhali] 

[Khalisakhall] [Astakhali] ; 

[Hfirikhall] [Bamankhall] [Sadhu- 

kliali] ; [Mu^akhali] ; [Jbaukbali] 

; [Tellkbali] ; [Satrakbalt] j 

[Sagardoha] ; [Ssgardarl] ^rr’l^Tlfl ; [DhansSgar] 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


40 

; [Sukhs^gar] ; [Gopisagar] ; 

[Nalghona] ; [Nonaghona] ; [Goun 

ghona] ; [Magiiraghona] 5?t<9?tC^t5«1 ; [Siyalghona] 

etc. 

For the same reasons, the names of various fishes occur 
in place-names, c.g., [Kaikhali] ; [KSnkrakhall] 

; [Cinrakhali] ; [Magiirkliall] ; 

[KhaliMiali] ; [Piliigaskhali] ; 

[llismari] ; [Icakhada] ; [Icakhola] 

^5tr«rt5T| ; [Kaikhani] ; [Katlakar] ; [Canda] 

tpfl ; [Cinra] ; [Takipur] ; [Tehm] C^*’®1 ; 

[Tenrali] ; [Puntimari] ; [Puntia] ; 

[Batkemari] ; [Batkedaiiga] ; 

[Maguradanga] ; [Magura] ; [Boalia] 

; [Bhetkiya] ; [Riiijanl] ; [Salua] *1^1 ; 

[Sailkupa] ; [Sailmr.ri] ; [Singa] ; 

[gingi] f¥w; [Ilispur] [Kalla] ; [Khalsi] 

; [Gajalraari] ; [Gajalia] ; [Batkamari] 

[Kanki-amai i] [Balikamari] Tll^TtsTtf?! , 

[Teiiraraari] ; [Gagramari] ’stt’TspJtf? ; [Citahuari] 

; [Taki] ; [Tiikipur] ; [Takimari] 

; [Punti] ; [Puhtikhali] : [Baintala] 

[Boailmari] ; [Machkhola] sTtf ; 

[Ichlabazar] etc. 

The Common Austria Substratum is responsible for inter- 
provincial (?) names containing repetition. Thus, wc have: 
[Kolkol] (Bur); [Daradam] (24 -P) ; [Bajbaj] 

WW (24-P) ; [Biidbud] (Bur) ; [gur^ur] (Mid) ; 

[Ghanaghana] (Mid); [Damduna] T^VRKMyrn, Khu, Baj)' 

[Dagdaga] (Mym) ; [Dardara] (Myrn) ; [Daldala] 

(Mym) ; [Bbinbhina] (Bur) ; [Cikcika] f54f6'¥l 

(Ban) ; [Bharbhara] (Mym) ; [Birbira] (Mid) ; 

[Putputya] (Mid) ; [Kharkhariyil] (Mym, 

Tip) ; [Belbeliya] (Mym) ; [Gargariya] 9f?^tflRrl (Mym) ; 

[Jhatkjhaniya] (Mym) ; [Uhandhaniya] (Mym ;) 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


41 


[Cakcakiya] (Mym) ; [Bhuabhusiya] (Myni) ; 

[Tangtangiya] fMyin) ; [Jhaljhaliya] (Mym) ; 

[KhaBkhasiya] (Mym) ; [Bhurbhuriya] (Mym, 

Tip); [Mairnaliya] (Khu) ; [Durduriya] (Khu) ; 

[Kalkaliya] (Khu); [Ourguriya] (Khu) ; 

[Ghunghuniya] (Nad); [Balbaliya] (24- P) ; 

[Dhandhaniya] (24- P) ; [Hulhuliya] (Raj); 

[Cxanganiya] (Bur) ; [Thanthaniya] (Bog, 

Cal); [Halhaliya] (Bog) ; [Keckeciya] CW^#9l (Bir); 

[Gargariya] (Mid); [Jaljaliya] (Mid, Bir). 

Besides, we liave tlie following names : — 

[Khunkhiini] (Mym) ; [Bhurbhuri] (Mym); 

[Jamja-ni] (N id) ; [Dhapdbapi] (24-P) ; [Kalkali] 

^51^ (24-P) ; [Diildiili] (24-P) ; [Gargari] (Nad) ; 

[Dumduml] (Ban); [Karkari] (Ban, Bir); 

[Cakcaki] (Ban) ; [Daldali] (Mai, Mid) ; [Jhum,- 

jhumi] (Mid) ; [Hadhadi] (Mid); [Jhaljbali] 

(Mid); [Jaljali] (Mid); [Simi^imi] (Bur); 

[Putputc] (Mid). 

Besides these reduplicated place-names, Onomatopoetic 

names are also found throughout Bengal, c.g., [Dalbal] 
fMym) ; [Dhamdhutn] (Jes) ; [Ghourdour] C^'l^C'tV (Bog) ; 

[Cucurraueur] (Jal) ; [iairkaair] (Tip); 

[Ikurtakur] (Mym); [Birisiri] (Mym); 

[Hasibasi] (Mym); [Kukrimukri] (Bar); 

[Hilrnili] (Chi); [Batitakf] (Mid) ; [JhilimiliJ 

(Mid) ; [Dudhehude] (Mid); [Kelemele] C^^ICTC^l' 

(Ban). 

When there are two prominent places with the same namejj 
one is distinguished from the other in one of these ways. 

When the places are far apart, the name of the nearest 
village is appended. Thus there are two Krsnanagaras in West 
Bengal. One is called Khanakul Krsnanagar, i.e., Krsnanagar 
.near the village Khanakul and the other is called Goarl Ki^na- ' 
nagar, .i.e., Krsnanagar near the village Goari. ) 

ia48BJ.-6. 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


There are two Balis (^ ), one in the district of Howrah 
situated on the right bank of the river Ganges, and the other in 
Hooghly District (in Police station Goghat of the Arambag sub- 
division) on the right bank of the river Dwarake^war. To 
distinguish one from the other, Bali in Hooghly is generally 
called Bali-Dewanganj from a neighbouring village of that name 
and sometimes Balihat also from the fact that a big hat is held 
in Dewanganj. 

There are two Kalikatas ( ), one in the district of 

24-Parganas situated on the left bank of the river Hooghly and 
the other in Howrah district, situated on the northern bank of 
the river Damodara, about two and- half miles off from the 
Police station Amta. To distinguish one from the other, 
[Kalikata] in Howrah is called “ Rasapur-Kalikata ” 

or sometimes even as “ (Ihota-Kalikata ” Cft^ 
[See, ‘^Sahitya Parishat Patrika”, 1345 B.S. No. 1, 
"Kalikata Nainera Vyutpatti ” by Prof. S. K. Chatterji], 

Sometimes, however, distinctive words are added to the 
names. Thus, there are two Kalgans in Birbhura. One is 
called Car-Kalgafi and the other Das-Kalgan. Similarly, there 
are two Rampuras in Mymensingh. One is known as Gagdi 
Rampur and the other is known as Dalpa Rampur. The follow- 
ing names may be cited : — 

[Bandsakrn] [Bilsaknl] (Mym) ; [Baje- 

dudhkura] [DuyanIdudhkuraJ (Mym); 

[Rehaipala^tala] a5t^*t«Tt*r®5n, [Badepalastala] 

(Myra) ; [Kar^akariail] [Badekariail] 

(Mym); [Kadimkagna] [Badekagtia] TfWTWsH 

(Mym) ; [Rajakcikm] [Brciknl] (Mym) ; 

[Konabinna] [Badebinna] (Mym) ; [Khod- 

karnasi] [Cakkarnasi] (Mym); [Khas- 

candbayra] ^i'»ibl»n^^fll, [Rehaicandbayra] (Mym); 

[Kasbaatlya] [Calaatiya] (Mym) ; 

[Nijkalmohana] [Badekalmohana] 

(Mym); [Barakalihar] [Khurdkalihar] 



£»LACE-1JAMES OF BENGAL 4& 

(Mytn) ; [Svalpa-andaliya] [Brandaliya] 

(iMym); [Arajimalipatan] [KisraatmElipa^an] 

(Khu) ; [ Khurdbakhail] [Bujrub 

bakhail] (Jes). 

But if a river or a canal intervenes between the two places, 
one retains the name or takes up the adjective gbar (home) 
and the other takes up the adjective par “ trans 

Thus, [Birhata or GharbirhataJ [Par- 

birhata] [i.e., trans-Birhata] (Bur). 

But if the places are very near to each other, one retains 
the original name, while the other takes up one of the following 
adjectives such as “ bar ” (<bahira) (outer), “ baje ” ?rtW 
(<bahya) (outer), “ bade ” “ br ” f “ svalpa '• nif’ 

kismat” “ araji ” “ dari ” Vff^, “ khurd ” 

• band ” “ khamar ” “ damn ” »f?F*l, “ bir ” etc. 

The following instances may be noticed : — 

[Kanura] [Badekanura] (Mym); [Ghona- 

para] [Badeghonapara] (Mym) ; 

[Halaliya] [Badehalaliya] (Mym); 

[ Digaria] [Badedigaria] (Hug) ; [Nabliaran] 

[Badenabharan] ^tmf^*l (Jes); [Candihar] 
[Badecandihar] (Mai); [Khatura] ^11^ [Bade- 

khatura] C24-P) ; [Ja^odal] [Svalpaja^dal] 

(Mym) ; [Siiijuri] [Svalpa^ihjuri] 

(Dac); [Nandiyara] [Svalpanan diyara] 

(Bar) ; [Bartali] [Bajebartali] (Mym) ; 

[Baliyadi] [Bajebaliadi] (Dac) ; [Silinda] 

[Bajesilinda] (Raj); [Phukura] 

[Bajephukura] (Far) ; [Hora] C5t?1, [Baje- 

hora] (Tip): [Gopalpur] [Bajegopalpnr] 

(Mur) ; [Rasulpur] [Bajerasulpur] 

(Bur) ; [Buj'ihg] 1^*, [Bajebujung] (Bir) ; 

[Bamandaha] [Bajebamandaha] (Jes); 

[Caithat] [Dnricnithat] (Mym): [Cariyakopa] 

[Daricariyakona] wf?5f?lll1t^*11 (Mym); [Hasil 



44. 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


[Darihasil] (Mym) ; [Meiya] [Dari- 

ineiya] (Mym) ; [Umajuri] [Dariumajun] 

(Khu) ; [Saldha] [Dari^aldha] 

(Jes); [Haruki] [DariharukiJ (Bir); [Khojjatii] 

C<ri^art^, [Darikhojjani] (Dac) ; [J’admabila] 

[Baripadmabila] (Far); [Carakona] 

[Brcarakona] (Mym); [Capila] [Brcapila] 

(Raj); [Boaliya] [Brboaliya] 

(Fab); [Kusthiya] [Brkustbiya] (Bog); 

[Hacla] [Brbacla] (Jes) ; [Sajiara] 

[Arajisajiara] (Khii) ; [Punibar] 

[Arajlp'uriihar] (Jes); [Kulgachi] [Araji- 

kulgachi] (Mur); [Paikdauga] [Arajl- 

paikdanga] (How); [Baikliir] [Araji- 

baikhir] (Par); [Boultali] [Arajl- 

boultali] (Bar); [Itakbola] [Arajl- 

itakbola] (Ran) ; [gakoyfi] [Arajisakoa] 

(Jal) ;![Barabbag] [Kismatbarabhag] 

(Myra) ; [Barenga] [Kismaibarenga] 

(Mym) ; [Faiiaiya] ^Tf^Tt^^b [Kismatnanuiya] 

(Dac); [Bibicini] [Kismatbibicini] (Bar); 

[Bagura] ?t^'?r|, [Kismatbagura] (Raj); [Baraikbola] 

[Kismatbaraikliola] (Ran); [Pbultala] 

[Kismatpbultala] (Kbu) ; [Gbojragacba] 

[Kismatgboragacba] (Jes); [Simul- 

bari] [Kismatsimulbilrl] (How) ; 

[Jonail] CWKt^^, [Kburdjonail] (Mym); [Cbatian] 

[Khurdcbatian] (Dac); [Magura] ^m\i 

[Khurdmagura] (Far); [Bakbail] [Khurdbakbail} 

(Nad); [Singa] [Kburdsinga] (24-P) ; 

[Gajail] [Kburdgajail] (Tab) ; [ Babera,] 

[Kburdbabera] (Hug); [Tulandar] ^e1*vr4, [Nijtulandair] 

(Mym) ; [Biiurisuya] [Nijbaniisuya] 

(Tip); [Balali] [NijbalalT] (Bog) ; [Gaddimiirl] 

5t^5?rttt, [Nijgaddiiuari] (Ran). 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


45 


Besides these, we get the following pairs of names : — ■ ‘ 

[Jamati] [Baharjiimati] (Mym); [Putiya] 

[Poraputiya] (Mym) ; [Patuli] [Ichim- 

pat'ili] (Myra) ; [Palas^iya] [Hiranpala^iya] 

(Mym) ; [Jhinai] [Behaijhinai] 

(Myra); [Beggrail] [Beribeggrail] (Myra) ; 

[Kiloha] [Poyakaloha] (Myra); [Ka^ar] 

[Bhatika^ar] ^Myra); [Payarl] [Darji- 

[)ayarl] (Myra) ; [Jamati] WW?t, [Baharjamati] 

(Mym) ; [Bairatl] [Nasyabairatl] (Myra) ; 

[Patuli] [Dulapatuli] (Mym); [Deara] 

[Milkideara] f»l«t<?lCtnit®1 (Khu) ; [Naghosfi] ^TtC’^Nl, [Balai- 
naghosa] (Jes). 

When more than one village in a particular locality have a 
common name, they are differentiated from one another by the 
additions of epithets or by a combination of two names. The 
following types of names are found in Mymensingh district ; — 
Thus, [Kharsila] [Darikharsila] and 

[Kadimkharsila] ; [Katra] [Kisraatkatra] 

and [Bhanikatra] ; [Karna] ^<1, 

[Svalpakarna] [ Madhyakarna] ; [Jalphai] 

[Nagarjalphai] , [Jagannatlijalphai] ; 

[Boula] [Katboula] and [Darikatboula] 

[Palasiya] [Bandpalasiya] 

[Hiranpalasiya] ; [Bajail] [Kalibajail] ^t^- 

[Cakgarbajail] and [Caraarbajail] FpTt?- 

; [Basiya] [Badebasiyfi] and [Dobiisiya] 

[Paruldiya] [Birparuldiya] 

[Svalpaparuldiya] ; [Naohata] [Brnaohata] 

[Svalpanaobata] ; [Douhakhola] C^tC’«r|eTl, 

[Br^oubakhola] [Kadimdouhakhola] 

[Svalpadouhiikhola] [Sigjani] [Khamar- 

sigjani] [DanigsinjauiJ [Eampur- 

sigjani] ; [Paueasi] [Brpancasi] 

[Daripancasi] [Parapancas^i] [Bhulsoma] 



it. i». goswAmi 


46 

[Khairatbhulsoraa] [Hatbbulsoma] 

[Ghagra] [Brgbagra] and [Svalpa- 

ghagra] Wrt’t^l ; [Barabhag] [Brbarabhag] ^WSt’t, 

[Kismat barabbag] [Svalpa barabbag] ; 

[Banail] [Babirbanail] [Nijbanail] ^- 

[Uttarbanail] ; [Payari] [Darjjipayari] 

[Sutiyapayari] [Bairatl] 

[Birbairatl] [Darunbairatl] *nF®t ; [Masua] *1^1, 

[Baramasua] and [Brabmanmasua] 

The following names are found in Khulna and Jessore 
districts, e.g., [Ajagara] 'SftW’bSl, [Rostamajagara] CStS’l- 
[Bipraajagara] [Biriajagara] 

(Khu) ; [Tetuliya] [Mitratetuliya] and 

[Brahmantetuliya] (Khu) ; [Srikundi] 

[Araji^rlkundi] [Bujruk^rlkundi] 



CHAPTER III 


^jrBOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION OF PLACE-NAMES 

Prom the lists, we have seen that different locality 
specialises different types of names. Sometimes, many place- 
names with some common affix occur predominantly in one 
district only. Thus, the names with [Kathi] or [Kathi] 
(wood, forest) occur invariably in the deltaic Bengal, viz., in 
the districts of Barisal, Khulna and Jessore, although a very 
few names are found sporadically in other parts of Bengal. 

As, [H iludkathi] [.Adarakathi] 

[Kilaskathi] ; [Smidarkatlii] ; [Madhur- 

kithi] [Patkathi] [Kajlakathl] 

[Sahgiikitlil] ; [Siddhakathi] ; [Siyalka^hl] 

[Culkathi] [Tiyakathi] il7ill4i^ ; [Bibblsan- 

kathi] and many other.s occur in Barisal district. 

The village-names [Ataikathi] ; [Karaal- 

kathl] ; [Goiitainkathi] [Tulakathi] 

[Paitakathi] [Puspakathi] 

[Samaskatlu] etc., are found in Khulna district and 

[Brahmakathi] [S ira^akathi] [Curaman- 

kathi] [Nrsighakathi] [Sirajkathi] 

f5RRW4t1^. etc., occur in Jessore district. 

The names of various fishes occurring in place-names are 
also found largely in the deltaic Bengal. To cite some very well- 
known names. 

[Kaikhail] (Khu) ; [Cifirakhali] (Khu); 

[Kaiikrakhali] (Khu) ; [Teijrakhali] (Khu) j 

[Ilismari] (Khu) ; [Pufltimari] (Khu) ; [CMdS] 

St*r1 (Khu) ; [Singi] (Jes) ; [Katla] (Jes) ; [Khalsl] 

'*191^ (Jes) ; [Gajaltnari] (Jes) ; [Gajaliya] 

(Jes) } [Boaliya] (Jes) ; [Sailkupa] (Jes), etc. 



48 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


The vast majority of place-names ending in [KandH] 
[Kandi] (<Sk;tndha, side, bank) generally occur in East and 
North Bengal, c.g., [Baolakanda] (Mym) ; [Bekar- 

kanda] (Mym) ; [Bhetuyakanda] (Mym) ; 

[Ulukamla] (Dac) ; [Kaolikanda] (Far); 

Lemukanda] (Bar) ; [Hoglakanda] (Tip) ; 

[Rajkanda] (Bog); [Maikanda] (Mai) ; [Mul- 

kandi] (I’a'O ; [Soula kandi] (Bog); [Tatar- 

kandi] (Mym); [Doulatkandi] (Noa),; 

['Daokaudi] (Raj) ; [Haitkilndi] (Flii); [Baliia- 

kandi] ' (Dac); [Patbankandi] (Par,i; 

[Cengakrxudi] (Bar) ; [ Naluyakandi) (Tip). 

A very few naiiiss are also found in the districts of Central 
and West Beogai. Thus, [Erokaiidi] (des) ; [Katuya- 

kandi] (Jes) ; [Karatkandi] (Nad) ; [Naphar- 

kandi] (Nad) ; [Padamkandi] (Muf) >' [Baul- 

kandi] (Mid). 

Names containing [Kiindar] (inlets of rivers) as their 

common final element are found in North Bengal 

Thus, [(iholkandar] (Raj); [Cuniyakandar] 

(Raj) ; [Nunakandar] ^sttTt**f<l (Raj); [Kalakandar] 
(Raj); [Sonakandar] (Pab) ; [f^askandar] 

(Ran) ; [Kalukandar] (Mai); [Katlakandar] 

(Mai) ; [Dbalakandar] (Mai) ; [Hatra- 

kandar] (Mai) ; [Jiyakandar] (Mai), etc. 

Place-names with [Kahaniya] (measure of agricultural 

produce) as their second part are seen only in the district of 
Mymensingh, e.g., [Pahckalianiya] ; [Biliskabaniya] 

; [Triskahaniya] ; [Calliskahaniya] 

; [Barakahaniya] ; [S.iitkaljaniya] ^- 

; [riatkahainya] ; [Kurikahaniya] 

etc. 

Names with [Kach raj (<Kak8avataka, neighbourhood) 

as their common final element are found in East Bengal. 

Thus, [Panditkachra] (Mym) ; [Khamarkachra} 



PLACE-NAMES OP BENGAL 


(Mym) ; [Arjjimkachra] (Mym); ■ [Bir- 

bandkachra] (Dac). 

Names with the sufi&x [Kai] "^1^ (<Kvatha) occur in East 
and North Bengal, e.g., [Jhuikai] (Mym); • [Phutkai] 

(Mym); [Kaitkai] (Mym) ; [Tailkai] 

(Dac); [Jhujkai] (Raj) ; [Sankai] (Mai). 

Place-names with [Kanall] (? channel) as their second 

parts occur in the districts of Midnapur and Bankura only, e.g., 
[Kadamkanall] (Mid); [Mujrakanali] 

(Mid); [RathukanalT] (Mid); [Khayrakauali] 

(Ban) ; [Junkanall] (Ban) ; [Diyarkanall] 

(Ban) ; [Jatiyakanall] (Ban). 

Place-names ending in [Kunda] [Kundi] or 

[Konda] (T^FPwI (high land) are found in West Bengal. 

Thus, [Ailakundi] (Ban) ; [Emokundi] <ilc.*d^!^ 

(Ban) ; [Pumurkundi] (Ban) ; [Mujrakundi] 

(Ban); [Malkunda] (Mid) ; [Kafikurkunda] 

(Bur) ; [Amakunda] (Bur) ; [Chatakunda] 5t'5t^**f1 

(;Bur) ; [Nakrakonda] (Bur)’; [Majrakunda] sjaRtfHfl 

(Bir); [Bandarkonda] (Ban); [Nacankonda] •<lW(,4l*nl 

(Ban); [Pomkonda] C'!?1’»C4 \W\ (Ban), etc. 

Place-names with [Kuti] and [Kundari] are 

found in Midnapur district. 

Thus, [Ban^kuti] ; [Kusumkuti] ; [Cira- 

kuti] etc. [Betkunduri] ; [Nuniyakundari] 

etc. 

A few names ending in [Kend] (Kend fruit) occur in 

Bankura district only, e.g., [Kasakend] ; [PhengA- 

kend] CWE’F’W ; [Mocrakend] C’Tlb^U'^'^W. 

A few names ending in [Ke^ia] and [Kita] 

are found in Burdwan district. Thus, [Uparake^iya] 

[Namkesiya] ; [Malkita] ; [Kamarkita] 

Place-names with [Kair] as their common final element 
occur in Bast and North Bengal. Thus, [Kaliyakair] 

W46BJ.-7. 



10 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


i[Dac) j [Puyakair] (Dac) ; [Louliakair] (Dae) ; 

[Dulukair] (Par) ; [Cafickair] (Raj) ; [Pirakair] 

(Raj) ; [Baniyakair] (Pab) ; [Kaliyakair] 

(Pab) ; [Manikair] (Pab). 

Names ending in [Khai] generally occur in East and 
North Bengal. Thus, [Sagrakbai] (Mym) ; [Paisakhai] 

(Mym); [Corkhai] (Mym); [Ulukhai] 

(Mym); [Gacikhai] (Mym); [Laukhai] 

(Mym) ; [Camarkhai] (Dac); [Salkhai] (jPar); 

[Kanikhai] (Bar); [Sorkbai] (Raj) ; [Bera- 

khai] (Pab) ; [Asurakhai] (Ran). 

Names with [Kbain] as llrt'ir second part are only 

found in the districts of Noakbali and Chittagong. Thus 
•we have, [Mamurkhain] (Noa); [Hetikbain] 

(Noa); [Gorankbain] (Cbi) ; [Kaikbain] 

(Chi); [Karankhain] (Chi); [Bhatikbain] 

j(Chi); [Barakhain] (Chi) ; [Harinkbain] 

!(Chi). 

A few names ending in [Khanji] "^tfw (the place in the 
mouth of two rivers) are found in Burdwaii district only. 

Thus, [Gopkhanji] ; [Tikarkbafiji] (a 

settlement in the fold of a high land) ; [BJirakbanji] 

Place-names with the suffix [Khanri] (place, house) 

are found in Central and West Bengal, c.p., [Mfilkhana] ^’^TfiTl; 
(Jes) ; [Komkbana] (Nad); [Pilkhana] (Mur) 

[Telikhana] (Mid); [Candrakb fina] (How) ; 

.[Bamankhana] (Hug); [Huagkbana] (Ban) ; 

[Rautkhana] (Hug, Ban). 

Place-names containing [Kbila] (arid land) as their 

si^nd part are found in East Bengal, e.g., [Sonaakbil] 

(Dac) ; [Bbimkhil] (Far) ; [Ca^da)khil] (Tip) ; 

[Tairkhil] (Tip); [Hajirkhil] (Cbi); [Bbater- 

khil] (Chi) ; [Mitharkhil] (Noa) ; [Aguank^il] 

(Noa); [Naharkhil] (Noa); [Hasunkhila] 

Pac); [Dehankhila] (Dac). 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 61 

Names ending in [Kbila] f^^Tl are quite abundant iii 
the district of Myrnensingb. Thus, [Janakikbila] I 

[Jangalkbila] ; [Akbarkhila] ; [UncakbilS]' 

[BhurkhilA.] ^«12>i1 ; [Nijamkbila] 

[Dariyakhila] ; (Jajarkhila] ; [Sananda- 

kbila] ; [Hosenkhila] C^tPiai^. 

Village-names ending in [Khair] are found in North 
Bengal. Thus, [Gorkliair] (Raj) ; [Jliinakhair] 

(Raj) ; [Ghatkbair] (Raj) ; [Khetkhair] (Raj!) ; 

[Candrakhair] (ftaj) ; [Ilaridrakhair] (Raj) ; 

[Betkhair] (Bog) ; [Catkbair] (Bog) ; [Sankair] 

(Mai). 

Names ending in [Kbunda] [Kbupi] [Khuli] 

and [Kbuliya] are generally found in South-West 

Bengal. Thus, [Nekiiikhunda] (Mid); [Kusum- 

khundi] (Ban) ; [Paraikhupi] (Jes); [Kukura- 

khupl] (Mid;; [Tetulkliull] (’id-P) ; [Tila- 

khull] (Mid) ; [Teliyakbuii] (Mid) ; [Suvarna- 

kbuli] (Hug); [Catrakhuliya] (Mid); [Cun- 

khuliya] (Mid). 

Names with the suffix [Gai] (<gramika, belonging 

to a villagi) are generally found in Myrnensingb district, 
e.g., [Taragai] ^ ; [Jhaugai] [Gilagai] 

; [MerigaiJ [Runigai] ; [Gbatugai] 

etc. 

A large number of place-names with the endings [Gere] 
C5fC^, [Gerya] C’t'^rl and [geriya] are found in Midnapur 

district, e.g., [Belagcre] [Gotgere] [Kunja- 

gere] ; [AknagereJ ; [Tatigere] j 

[Solagere] ; [Horagere] ; [Pindagere] 1%«1- 

C’H:®; [Sijgerya] ; [Gecurgerya] ; [Uhekarr 

gerya] ; [Tupllgerya] ; [Nilacigerya] 

; [Kutuagcrya] j [Nunanunigerya] 

C9^5Tl ; [Hincagerya] ; [Ahgargerya] ; 

[Cehgnageriya] ; [Para^igeriya] } 



K. P. GOSWAMI 

[Hirirgeriya] ; [Tasargeriya] ; 

[Kapasgeriya] ; [Laluyageriya] ; 

[Su^unigepiya] etc. 

Names containing [Goda] C^TW, [Go|] C’tl^ and [Go^ha] 
C»t^1 as their second parts are found in West Bengal only. 
Thus, [Kharigoda] (‘24-P) ; [Phutigoda] ^C’ttvfl (24- P) ; 

[Jotgoda] CSrt^C’TtWl (Bur) ; [Kelegoda] (Mid) ; [Nar- 

goda] (Mid); [Jiyadargot] (24-P); [Mahis- 

got] (Mid, How, Hug) ; [Gurigot] (Mid) ; 

[Kadagot] (Bank) ; [Malgofcha] (Mur). 

Place-names with [Guri] [Gura] as their 

common final elements are generally found in North Bengal; 
and a few names with these endings are also met with in 
some districts of West Bengal. Thus, [Bhalaguri] 

(Ran); [BairMiguri] (Jal.); [Simulguri] f*t^'55f'5 

(Jal); [Binnaguri] (Jal) ; [Bataliguri] (Dar) ; 

[Mandalaguri] (Dar); [IJouhaguri] (Bar); 

[Maynaguri] (Dar) ; [Dlianguni] (Din) ; [Keu- 

guri] (Bur); Bajnaguri] (Mid); [Bcliyagnri I 

(Mid); [Nesraguri] (Hug); [Payraguri] 

(Bank) ; [Bahariigura] (Mid) ; [Amlagura] 

(Mid); [Kalsigora] (Mid); [Kocagora] 

(Mid) ; [Hamargora] (Mid). 

A few place-names ending in [Ghop] are found in 
Jessore district only. As [Canduriarghop] ; 

[Bibirghop] ; [Hariyarghop] [Surargbop] 

etc. 

Place-names having the sufiix [Gang] 59? are found only 
in -Bast Bengal, specially in the district of Tipperah. Thus, 
[Baniyacahg] (Tip, Syl) ; [Bholacahg] C5t«Tt59r (Tip) ; 

[Maincang] (Tip); [Raniyacahg] <rt%lw j [Phakira- 

cang] ?pf5R(l59? (Chi). 

A few names ending in [Gail] are found only in 

Tipperah district. Thus, [PubacailJ ; [Damcail] 

lfl915#9! ; [Baucail] 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 69, 

Place-names ending in [Gala] are generally found in 
the Dacca district. Thus, [Kuarcala] ; [Ganak- 

cala] ; [Goyalcala] j [Habuarc&la] ; 

[Beracala] 

But a village [Louhacala] is also found in 

Faridpur district. 

Names ending in [Capra] [Capri] and [Capar] 

generally occur in Bast and North Bengal, although very 
few names ending in these words are found in West Bengal. 
As, [Nalcapra] ^1^^ (Mym) ; [Bhalukcapra] 

(Mym) ; [Laucapra] (Mym); [Sailcapra] 

(Mym) ; [Ksidricapra] (Raj) ; [Mapikcapra] 

(Pab) ; [Mathailcapar] (Pab) ; [Ksidra- 

capri] (Pab). 

Names with the common final elements [Cura] ^ and 
[Cira] ft?rl are found- in East Bengal. As, [Sakcura] 

(Mym) ; [Pithacura] (Mym) j [Lobacura] 

(Mym) ; [Bhucura] 'f^l (Far) ; [Louhacura] (Far) ; 

[Sihgacura] (Far); [Nalcira] (Mym); [Barai- 

cira] (Mym, Tip) ; [Candalcira] F'Qt®lfl?rl (Dac) ; 

[Kamarcira] (Bar). 

Place-names with [Cuya] and [Cati] as their 

common final parts are restricted only in the district of Midna- 
pur. Thus, [Kakaricuya] ; [Balicuya] [Nata-J 

cuya] ; [Katucuya] ; [Bhalkacuya] 

(But a name Taracuya is also found in Birbhum^ 

district.) [Amlacati] 'srtsFrlFt^ ; [Khayracatl] «l^tFl^ ; [Teuti- 
catl] [Bulbulcati] [Moulacati] C*fii®TtFttf 

[Kharikacati] [Baramcati] [Bhururca^i] 

etc. 

Place-names with the suffixes “ cu ” ^ or “ co ” C5l (water) 
are found in the district of Tipperah only. Thus, [Kaliyaco] 

; [Kalaco] ; [Tho^arico] IF1 ; [Papaco] 

nt^CFI; [Sanico] [Tirco] ; [Daracu] 

[Lajncu] ®Tt^, etc. > 



54 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


The vast majority of place-uames with the endings [Jola] 
CWM and [Joll] CWt^ (channel) are found in Central and West' 
Bengal, although a few names occur in Maldah district of North 
Bengal. To cite some names, [Narayanjol] (Khu) ; 

[Sigjol] (Jes); [Puntijol] (Mur); [Peruya- 

jol] (How); [Gadadharjol] 9fvrt*rSfCWt«1 (How); 

[Kankrajol] (How) ; [Lankajol] (Ban) ; 

[Dhobajola] (Bir) ; [Kharjoli] «rt?CWt^ (Bur) ; 

[Taljoli] (Mid); [Sonajoli] (Bir). But 

[Sonajol] [Camarjol] 5tsrl?C^, [Gajol] 

are found in Maldah district. 

A large number of names ending in [Tikri] and 

[Tikurl] (hill, hillock) are found in Central and West 

Bengal, although a few names occur sporadically in North 
Bengal. 

Thus, [Sonatikri] (Jes, Khu) ; [Kultikri] 

(24-P); [Ulastikri] (Bur); [Humtikri] 

(Mid) ; [Kapastikri] (Mid, Bog) ; [Kultikri] 

(How); [Nimtikuri] (Bir); [Namtikri] 

(Mai) ; [Kaoyatikri] (Eaj). 

Most of the place-names ending in [Tefik] C^*^, (sharp bend 
of a river) are found in Dacca and Faridpur districts, e.g., 
[Kankiarteuk] (Dac) ; [Bartultenk] 

(Dac); [Gugitenk] (Dac); [Gajirtenk] 

(Far); [Baksirtenk] (Far). 

A few names ending in [Tehga] (high land) are 

found in Mymensingh district only. Thus, [Nij^enga] ; 

[Gridantehga] ; [Jahgaltehga] etc. 

The names with [Tanr] and [Tand] as their final 

parts occur only in Santal Pargana, Manbhum, Hajaribag, etc. 
T^hus, [Karmatanr] ^?Prtfe*'h5 ; [Sarmatand] etc. 

Many place-names with [Piha] f^, [Oihi] or [Pi] 
as their common second elements are found in Western and 
South-Western Bengal. 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 

Thus, [Pa^handiha] (Mid) ; [Bamandiha] 

(Bur) ; [Pala^dihi] (Bur) ; [Mahuldihi] 

WTf^ (Mid) ; [Saotaldiba] (Mid) ; [Kuldii] 

(Bur) ; [Mahutdi] (Bur) ; [Nunedi] (Bir) ; 

[Gopaldi] C5tPtt5lf5 (Ban) ; [Gohaldi] (Mid) ; [Kuldiha] 

(Ban). 

A few names ending in [Dagi] are found in Eastern 
and South-Eastern Bengal : 

[Gimadagi] (Bar) ; [Keoradagi] (Bar) ; 

[Kurnardagl] (Tip); [Abuyadagi] (Noa) ; 

[Culdagi] (Noa). 

Some place-names with [Thol] C’ft®! (<stara?) as their com- 
mon final element occur in West Bengal only. 

Thus, [Murgathol] (Bur); [Jamthol] (Ban); 

[Bhurkundathol] (Bin) ; [Bhalukathol] 

(Ban). 

A few names containing [Dandl] as their second part 

are found in Chittagong district only, e.g., [!5obhandandl] 
[Aknpdandi] 'srtf ; [Kokdandl] 

[FJacandandl] [Couphaldandi] 

Place-names with [Data] and [Dona] (<drona 

.0^*1, measure of land) as their common final parts are found in 
East Bengal. 

Thus, [Jagadal] (Mym) ; [Jasodal] (Mym) ; 

[Baradal] (Dac) ; [Patdal] (Far); [Hardal] 

(Bar) ; [Pancdona] (Dac) ; [Cairdona] 

(Dac) ; [Da4dona] (Dac, Tip); [Tridona] fliCifl'Jrl 

(Tip) ; [Couddadona] (Tip). 

A few names with the suflBx [Dan] are found only in 
Midnapur district ; 

[Ciladan] ; [Oaratadan] ; [Ukhradan] ; 

[Gobradan] C’tt’nrfvR ; [Jogidan] 

Place-names with [Dari] and [Doha] CWt^l, as their 

common final elements are found in Central and West Bengal : 
[Agardari] (Khu) ; [Sagardarl] (Ehu, 



66 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


Jes, Mid) ; [Gholdarl] (Nad) ; [Jhaudarl] (24- P) ; 

[Naradari] (Mid); [Dharadoha] «nrtWl5l (Khu); 

[Laudoha] «Tt^CTrt^ (Bur) ; [Rajdoha] (Ban) ; [Kumir- 

doha] ffSnWtCl (Ban). 

A large number of place-names with the suffix “ di ” or 
“di” are found in Bast Bengal, specially in the district of 
Dacca, though. a few names occur in some districts of Central 
and West Bengal. Thus, [Ahgiadi] (Myra) ; [Baradi] 

(Mym) ; [Sekhdl] (Mym) ; [Paikdl] (Mym) ; 

[Katiyadi] (Mym) ; [Dharndl] (Mym); [Kusdl] 

(Dac) ; [Jinardi] (Dac) ; [KauyadT] (Dac) ; 

[Tatirdi) (Dac) ; [Baniyadi] (Dac) ; [Lehgardi] 

(Dac); [Naldl] (Dac); [Temdl] (Dac); 

[Lasardi] (Dac); [Khamardi] (Dac); 

[Amardi] (Par) ; [Siyaldi] (Far) ; [Kbagdi] 

(Par) ; [NikhurdT] (Par) ; [Daldl] (Bar) ; [Dhandi] 

sRft (Bar) ; [Baradi] (Bar) ; [Baghadl] (Bar). 

Besides, a few names are also found in Khulna, Jessore, Nadia, 
•24-Parganas and Midnapur districts. 

Place-names with [Nan] [Nala] »rt^, [Nala] •TPTl and 
[Nall] ift# (channel) as their common second parts occur in 
West Bengal only. Thus, [Nainan] (24-P) ; [Mainan] 

(How) ; [Bagnan] (How) ; [Kakuan] (Hug) ; 

[Paunan] (ting) ; [Kaknala] (Bur); [Dignala] 

(Bur) ; [Mucinala] (Mid) ; [Bakinala] 

(Mid); [Parakanall] (Mid), etc. 

A few names ending in [Palag] are found in 

Chittagong district only : 

[Uhalapalag] [Jaliyapalag] ; [Dhoya- 

palag] C«rp5[ptt^s; [Dhecuyapalag] 

A few place-names ending in [Put] <3^ are found in 
Midnapur district only : 

[Amadput] ; [Cecuraput] [Biramput]' 

; [Baghaput] 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 67 

Place-names with [Pota] C*tt^ and [Pola] C*tt^ as their 
common final elements are found in Central and West Bengal. 

Thus, [Barapota] ; [DhanpotaJ (Khu); 

[Samukpota] (-24-?) ; [Adampota] (Nad) ; 

[ICatrapHa] (Bur) ; [Ghonapota] (Mid); 

[Korahgapota] C^9|FtC*tt^1 ^Mid) ; [Ttapota] (How); 

[Hediyapota] (Hug); [Borajpota] (Ban); 

[Piplapol] fn’t57tC‘T|57 (Khu) ; [Altapol] (Jes) ; 

[Mocpol] (24-P); [Satyapol] (Nad); [Gure- 

pol] (How) ; [Bagatapol] (Ban). 

Names of villages ending in [Pa^a] (<par^vaka) 

generally occur in Bast and Central Bengal. Thus, the following 
villages may be cited : — 

[Aranyapa4a] (Mym); [Jaypasa] (Mym) ; 

[Deopasa] (.Vlym); [Budhpa^a] (Mym); 

[Tarpasa] (Far) ; [Rarhlpa^a] Tltft’tMl (Far) ; [Badar- 

pa4a] (Far) ; [Karttikpaia] (Bar) ; [Cunga- 

pa^a] (Bar); [Mundapa^a] (Bar); [Mahe^var- 

pa^a] 5(C?p5t?*tH1 (Khu) ; [Jogiulpa^a] C^rff5f^*tt*l1 (Khu) ; 
[Ichapa^a] (Jes); [Siddhipa^a] (Jes); [Laksml- 

pa^a] 9ps^»tM1 (24-P). 

Names ending in [Bar] are found in Midnapur district 
only. Thus, [Kalasbar] ; [Agarbar] ; 

[Jahanabar] [Khatuyabar] [Mathuribar] 

; [Sinnibar] etc. 

A large number of place-names with the suffix “bo” 
are restricted in Dacca district only. 

Thus, [Amraho] ; [Belabo] [Kamrabo] 

^t*r?rfr4l; [Caitarbo] ; [Ledarbo] ; [Tengabo] 

cWtC^Tl; [Tarabo] ; [Tilabo] ; [Palabo] ^1^1, 

etc. 

Most of the place-names ending in [Bhera] [Bheri] 

C®#(, [Bhola] and [Bhola] C5t^1 are found in Midnapur 
district only. 

X246BJ.-8. 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


68 

Thus, [Bagabhera] [Indhariabhera] 

[Catrlbhera] Ft'SflC'S^I ; [Ke^yabheri] : [San- 

bheri] ; [Lejibherl] [Ka^iyabhol] ^tf^- 

[KapatibholJ^*tf^®t51; [Ke^ebbola] [Tukuru- 

bho]a] 

PJace-names containing [Sail] [San] 5R and [Sana] 

’Rl as their final parts generally occur in North Bengal. 

Thus, [Baghsail] (Raj); [Gurum^ailj 

(Baj); [Tulasan] (Raj); [Pipiilsan] (Raj); 

[Kamarsan] ^?rJR (Pab) ; [Bhalasan] mr>R (Bog); 
[Katasan] (Din) ; [Tilasau] (Mai), etc. 

Names containing the suffixes -[Sai] and [Sini] Pitt 
(<va 8 ini) are found in Midnapur district only. As, [Kanakasai] 
^^fTPrt^; [Bamimsai] [Dagarsai] [Deragsai] 

(?nrtt’rt^;[ Arasini] RpStPltl ; [Nikursini] f5Tf?lPltt; [Kulaslnl] 
^^TtPltl, etc. 

The vast majority of place-names with [Sol] C*rPl, and 
[Suli] '^Pl (channel), as their common final parts are found 
in Burdwan, Midnapur and Bankura district only. Thus, 
[Asan^l] '5rPlpiC»rPf (Bur); [Siyar^oJ] f*Plt?IC»fPr (Bur); 
[Bena^ol] (?liT(r*ft«7 (Bur) ; [Baghiiyasol] (Mid) ; 

[Naurasol] 5rt^tC*rf*1 (Mid); [Bengai^ol] C^?i1^t*rPl (Mid); 
[Hatia^ol] ^l%t|lt*fpl (Mid) ; [Kuncisol] (Ban) ; 

[Rahga^ol] (Ban); [Kbarika^uli] (Ban); 

[Kucasuli] fPftsfq (Mid) ; [Bena^uli] (Mid), etc. 

Place-names containing [Rol] CJTPI as their common final 
element are found in West Bengal, c. 3 ., [Nirol] ftlSlPl (Bur); 
[Tirol] (Hug); [Kankrol] (How); | Sukarol] 

(Mid); [Kanrarol] #t®Trirr«l (Mid); [Ikrol] 

(Mur). 



CHAPTER tv 


Classification of Place-names 

The place-names in Bengal can be discussed mainly from 
two viewpoints : — 

(1) Semantic, (2) Morphological. 

(1) Viewed semantically, place-names may be either of (a) 
popular origin or (b) learned origin. 

(а) Place-names which are of popular origin are mainly 
descriptive in some very salient features and often inherited from 
remote antiquity, so that the actual form of words is well-nigh 
lost and the meaning becomes obscure. 

Descriptive place-names may belong to any of the following 
types 

(t) Descriptive of the original geographical situation or 
environment. 

(ii) Descriptive of old reminiscences as regards original 
extent or commercial activity or any historical incident. 

(Hi) Descriptive of an important landmark. 

(iv) Descriptive of the caste or profession, etc., of 
inhabitants. 

(б) Place-names which are more sophisticated ; often 
these learned names are eulogistic with a conscious aim at 
elegance. 

Eulogistic place-names may fall under any of the following 
types 

(i) Purely eulogistic. 

(ii) Names of local deities. 

(Hi) Names of deities. 

(iv) Names of prominent local persons. 

(v) Names of plants, flowers and other objects. 



60 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


(2) Viewed morphologically place-names may be included 
in the following types : — 

lA) Simple. 

{B) Compounds. 

(C) Besides simple and compound names, we have a large 
mass of disguised compounds, the resolution of which is one of 
the greatest problems in Indian Linguistics. 

(4) Simple names may be arranged in the following 
divisions ; — 

(i) Aryan {i.e., names, which are purely Sanskritie). 

(it) Non-Aryan, with a sub-division of (a) single, {h) 
reduplicated. 

(Hi) Doubtful. 

{iv) Names which are apparently single words. 

The names under items (ii) and {Hi) present the greatest 
difficulty in solving properly in the light of modern phonetics. 
In many cases, names which are not of Aryan origin are 
exceedingly difficult, sometimes impossible with the present stage 
of our knowledge, to account for. 

(B) Compound place-names may be arranged in the follow- 
ing manner ; — 

(i) Names with common initial elements {i.e., common first 
part or prefix). 

These names may be sub-divided into fa) numerals and (6) 
others. 

The names under item (b) may again be sub-divided into 
(1) Tatsama (2) Scm'i-tatsama (d) Tadhhava (4) Perso-Arabic 
(5) Desi and (6) Doubtful. 

(ii) Names with common final or second elements {i.e., 
names witii a common word as the second part). These names 
may fall under the following heads : — 

(1) Tatsama (2; Hemi-tatsama (3) Tadbham (1) Perso- 
Arabic (5) Desi (6) Doubtful. 

(iii) Names with a common suffix. 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 61 

(iv) Names which are apparently single words. 

(v) Hybrid names. 

{G) Disguised compounds may be either (a) modern or (6) 
early. 

Semantic : (a) Popular Design 

{i) Descriptive 0 / the original geographical situation or 
environment 

[Arapas] ( = AraparSa) “near a field’’ (Mym) ; 

[Kandapa^] (=Kandapar8va] “near the root (of a tree)’’ 

(Bar); [Banapa^] (« Banaparsva) “near a forest’’ (Bur); 

[Sundarban] “tlie forest of Sundarl trees’’ ; [Cakdaha] 

( ** Cakrahrada) “round lake’’ (Mym, Khu, Jes); 
[Phuldaba] ( = Phullahrada) (see page 32) “flower 

lake’’ (Mym); [Gfhoradaha] ( = (f hotakahrada) “horse 

pool’’ (Far, Pab) ; [Kaladaha] ( = Kalahrada) “black 

lake” (Mym); [Kaladaha] ( = Kadalihrada) “plantain 

lake” (Mym); [Beldaha] (Bilvahrada) CWT^ “wood-apple lake’’ 
(Mym) ; [Dhandaha] ( = Dhanahrada) “treasure lake” (Raj) ; 
[Dharmadaha) (=Darmahrada) “pious Jake” (Din, Jes) ; 

[Angardaha] ( = AAgarahrada) “charcoal lake” (Khu, 

Jes); [Muktadaha] ( = Muktahrada) “pearl Jake” (Jes); 

[Sonadaha] ( = Svarnahrada) “gold lalie” (Jes, Ban); 

[Kanyadaha] 4^1 ( = Kanyahrada) “daughter lake” 
(Jes) ; [Madhudaha] ( = Madhuhrada) “honeylake” (Jes) ; 

[Gurdaha] ( = Gurahrada) “Sweet-lake” (Jes, 24-P) ; 

[Tarabuldaha] ( = Tambulahrada) “betel-leaf lake” 

(24-P); [Kalidaha] ( = KalIhrada) “black lake” (24-P, 

Bir); [Siyaldaha] (==Sivahrada) “jackal pool” (24-P); 

[Enredaha] Andiahrada) “bullock lake” (24P) ; 

[Khardaha] “fuel or straw lake” (24-?) ; [Ghidaha] 

(*=Ghrtadaha) “ghee lake” (Bir) ; [Taldaha] («Tala- 

hrada) “palm lake” (Hug); [Nimdaha] ( = Nimbahrada) 

“neem lake” (Bur); [Balidiya] ( = Balidvipa) “sand 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


62 . 

island” (Mym); [Candandiya] ( = Candanadvipa) “sandal 

island” (Dac) ; [Manohardiya] ( »= Manoharadvipa) 

“beautiful lake” (Far) ; [Bahirdiya] ( = Bahiradvipa) 

“outlying island” (Far, Khu) ; [Paksidiya] ( = PakBi- 

dvipa) “bird island” (Tip); [Alokdiya] ( = Aloka- 

dvlpa] “a shining island” (Tip, Noa) ; [Maijdiya) 
(*=MadhyadvIpa) “middle island” (Nad); [GaiigadiyS] 

( = GangadvIpa) “the island formed by the river Ganges” (Pab) ; 
[Subhadiya] ( = Subhadvipa) “auspicious island” (Khu); 

[Kaudiya] ( = KakadvIpa) ‘ ‘crow island” (Jes) ; [Bup- 

diya] ( *= Kupadvipa) “beautiful island” (Jes); [Haldiya] 

( = HaladvIpa) “ploughing island” (Mid); [Hijaldi] 

( = Hijaladvipa) “an island containing Hijala trees” (Khu); 
[Naldi] ( = NaladvIpa) “reed island” (Jes); [Siyaldi] 

^l^l*lf*t ( = SivadvIpa) “jackal Island” (Jes) ; [Gahgdi] 

( *= Gangadvipa) “an island formed by the river Ganges” (Nad) ; 
[Taldi] 'ftlelfif ( = Taladvipa) “an island of palm trees” (24-P) : 
[Haldi] ( = Haladvipa) “ploughing island” (Mur, Bur, Ban); 

[Bardi] ( = Baradvipa) “big island”; [Beldi] ( = Bilva- 
dvipal “wood-apple island” (Mym) ; [Baniadi] “island 

of Baniyas” (Dac). 

[Phuldi] ( = Phulladvipa) “flower island” (Mym); 

[Baradi] (=? Baradvipa) “big island” (Mym); 

[Kusadi] ( = Kusadvipa) “ Ku^a island ” (Dac) ; [Khagdi] 

( = Khagadvipa) “straw island” (Far); [Dhandi] 

( = Dhanadvipa) “treasure island” (Bar); [Dharmadi] 

( = Dharmadvipa) “pious island” (Bar); [Baradi] 

( = Dvada^a dvipa) “twelve islands” (Bar); [Gangpur] 

“ the town on the Ganges or a river”; [Dviganga] “two 

rivers” {i.e., a place bounded by two rivers) ; [Gahgini] 

“ a village on the side of a river ’ ’ ; [Triveni] “ three 

streams” (i.e., where the three rivers namely Ganges, Jamuna 
and Sarasvati meet) ; [Diara] rir’til\»l ( = Dvipa vataka) “a settle- 
ment on an island” (Khu, Mym) ; [Barakar] “a village 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 61 

situated on the river Barakar ** (Bur) ; [ Ja^ohar] the 

name is probably connected with the Arabic word “ jasar ** 
which means bridge. 

The name of Jasar, the bridge, shows the nature of the 
country, which is completely intersected by deep water course ” 
(Cunningham’s ancient Geography). 

[Kajakhali] “ a khal or canal belonging to a king 

(Bar, Chi) ; [Machuakhali] “ a canal belonging to 

fish-vendors” (Bar); [Teggrakhall] “a canal of 

Tegra fish ” (Khu) ; [Noakhall] * new channel* (Noa) ; 

[Magurkhall] “a canal of Magurafish” (Khu, Jes) ; 

[Khalisakhali] a canal of Khalisa fish” (Khu); 

[Kaikhali] “a canal of Kai fish*(Jes); [CiSrSkhali] 

“a canal of Cigra fish” (Khu) ; [Pahgaskhall] 

“a canal of Paiigas fish” (Khu, 24-P) ; [Bamankhall] 
“a canal belonging to Brahmins ” (Jes); [Sadhukhali] 
^^"*11^ “a canal belonging to saints” (Jes); [Corkhali] 
CFlU^TTeft “a canal belonging to thieves” (Jes); [Cunakhali] 
"lime-quarry”; [Ku^advipa] " Ku^a island ” 

(Mur); [Navadvlpa] “nine or new islands” (Nad); 

[Agradvipa] "front island” (situated on the 

Bhagirathi) (Bur); [Sagaradighi] " a village where a 

big tank exists” (Mym, Dac, Mur) ; [Kotaldighi] 

"a tank belonging to Kottapalas ” (Ban) ; [Pahargora] 

foot hill”; [Pahartali] "foot hill” (Chi); 

[Garerpahar] " Forthill ” (Mur); [Simulguri] 

‘ ‘ foot of a Simula tree ” (Jal); [Tetulguri] (.'*'^*1- 
" foot of a tamarind tree” (Bar); [Dighirpar] 

" bank of a tank ” (Mym, Dac) ; [Daherpar] "bank 

of a lake ” (Mym) ; [Khalpar] " bank of a canal ” (Far) ; 

[Pukurpar] "bank of a tank” (Far); [Carghat] 

5?^ " landing or bathing place ” ; [Carpara] " a settle- 
ment on cliar land” (Mym); [Car^ankar] "a village 

on a char land named after one Sankara ’ ’ (Dac) ; [Bhitargar] 
" inner fort ” (Hug) ; [Deoghar] (=Devaghar) 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


64 

“the abode of a god ’’ (Mym) ; [Deobhog] (“Deva- 

bhog) (Pab) ; [Naihati] ( *» Nadihattika) “ a market-place 

on a river’’ (Nad, Mym); [Dehati] (=Dvipahattika) 

“a market-place on an island” (Nad); [Grihghati] 

( = Gangahattika) “a market-place on the Ganges ” (Pab) ; 
[Naokhola] “new field” (Mym); [Naopara] 

“new village or quarter” (Mym); [Naogafio] “new 

village” (Mym); [Nayabari] “new house” (Mym); 

[Nayanagar] “ new town ” (Mym) ; [Hatbarl] 

“the market-place or house” (Mym); [Hatbajari] 

‘^tbe bat or market-place of thousand men 


(ii) Descriptive of old reminiscences as regards original extent 
or commercial activity or any historical incident 

[Mogalmari] “ the village w'here the Moghals 

were routed” (Bur, Mid); [Baghmari] “the village 

where a tiger was killed ’ ’ (Ban, 24-P, Mid) ; [HMimari] 
sitf? “the place where an elephant was killed” (Mai); 
[Mahismari] “ the village w'here a buffalo was killed’’ 

(Mym) ; [Bbalukmari] “ the village where a bear was 

killed” (Mid); [Manusmari] “the village where a 

man was killed (Mid) ; [Bamunmari] “ the village 

where a Brahmin was killed” (Mid). 

There are cases w'bich can be taken to be both descriptive 
and eulogistic. Thus [Hiitikanda] [GhoramSra] 

[Kumirmara] etc. 

But such names as [Baghmara] [Baghmari] 

[Bheramara] c.^^»l*«l<rl, [Sapmara] 5rt^srt?1, [Kukur- 
mara] [Bhutmara] [Hafismari] 

[Pathamara] etc., are really descriptive names bearing 

reminicsences of past incidents. ‘ 

[Jahajmara] Wt^t6Rt?n “ a place where a ship was ruined” 
(Noa) ; [Tirmara] “ a place where a battle took place” 

(Dac). But the names [Tegramari] (Khu), [golmari] 



PLACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


63 


(Khu), [Pufltimari] (Khu, Jes), plitoari] 

(Khu), [Katlamari] (Mur, Nad), rCandamari] 

(Mur), [Kafikramari] (Mur), etc., are generally 

connected with the rivers and the places were famous’ for the 
various kinds of fish as shown in the above names. 

[Piljang] ( = Pil, elephant + jang, war), i.e., 

“the village where war-elephants were kept” (Khu); 
[Itakhala] “ the place where bricks were made” (Mym, 

Syl) ; [A§tagram] 'sr^.STfJl “a village containing the homesteads 
of cultivators of some eight revenue survey villages” (Mym); 
[Astadhar] “a village containing eight edges” (Mym) ; 

[Atpara] “a village containing eight houses or quarters” 

(Mym); [Atghar] “a village where eight families lived” 

(Par) ; [Atghariya] “a village where eight families 

lived” (Mym, Raj); [Atghara] “a village where eight 

families lived” (Bur, Jes, Hug) ; [Athazar] “a village 
containing eight thousand bighas of land” (Bar) ; 

[Atbhag] “a village containing eight divisions” ; 

[Atjurl] “a village containing eight pairs of houses” 

(Khu); [Atbati] “a village containing eight houses” 

(Mid) ; [Atharabari] ‘^a village containing eighteen 

houses” (Mym); [Atharapota] “a village containing 

eighteen posts” (Mym) ; [Atharajora] “a village con- 
taining eighteen pairs of houses” (Mid) ; [Caripara] “a 

village containing four settlements” (Mym); [Cauddaghar] 

“a village containing fourteen settlements” (Mym) ; [Datagram] 
vp*taft*l “a village comprising fourteen settlements” (Mid);[ Da^a- 
drona] vp*lWt*l “a village containing ten dronas of land” (Mur) ; 
FDa^hazar] “a village containing ten thousand bigh&s 

of land (Far); [Teragati] “a village containing thirteen 

settlemeiits” (Mym); [Terabari] “a village where 

thirteen families lived” (Mym); [Teradona] (where dona = drona) 
“a village comprising thirteen dronas of land” (Dac) ; 
[Terakani] “a village containing thirteen kanis of land” 

(Bar); [Satarabari] “a village containing seventeen 

liM6B.T.-9. 



•66 


K. P. GOSWAMI 


hbuses” (Mym) ; [Satgano] (“Saptagrama) “a village 

comprising seven settlements” (Tip); [Satpara] “a 

village coataiuiug seven quarters” (Dac) ; [Chaygano] “a 

village having six settlements” (Mym, Far) ; [Chaysatl] 

‘‘a village containing some six hundred bighas of land” (Mym) ; 
[Chayduna] (where duna = drona) “a village containing 

six dronas of land” (Mym); [Chaygharia] “a village 

containing six houses” (Tip); [Barabhag] “a village having 
twelve divisions” (Khu) ; [Barapara] “a village com- 
prising twelve quarters” (Khu) ; [Barahazar] ‘‘a village 

containing twelve thousand bighas of land” (Bar); [Baraghar] 
“a village where twelve families lived” (Mym); [Panppara] 
’ftS^fhSl “ a village having five quarters” (Tip, Noa) ; [Panchhag] 
“a village containing five divisions” (Mym); [Pancghara] 
“a village having five houses” (Bur); [Paficdeuli] 

“a village containing five temples” (Bur). 

{Hi) Descriptive of an important landmark 

% 

[Kalagachia] “containing plantain plants” (Mym); 

[Phulgachia] “containing flower plants” (Far); 

[Amragachia] “containing arora trees” (Bar); 

[Belgachia] “containing bi I va trees” (24-P) ; [Tal- 

gachia] “containing palm trees” (Bar) ; [Gabgachia] 

“containing gaba trees” (Bai); [Palasgachi] 
“containing palasa trees” (Mai); [Guagacbi] “containing 

nut trees” (Bog, Din); [Talgachi] “containing palm 

trees ’ (Raj); [Belgacbi] “containing bilva trees” (How, 

Nad); [Simulgacbi] “containing Simula trees” (Nad); 

[Kanthalgachi] “containing jack-fruit trees” (Bur); 

[Kulgachi] “containing palm trees” (Mur); [Nimtala] 

fslwri “foot of a nimba tree” (Mym); [Narikeltala] 

“foot of a cocoanut tree” (Mym) ; [Guatala] “foot of ^ 

nut tree” (Myra) ; [Pala^tala] “foot of a palaia tree” 

(Mym); [Phultala] ‘Toot of a flower plant” (Mym); 



t*LACE-NAMES OF BENGAL 


67 


[irnlitalft] '®| Info's'll “foot of a tamarind tree” (Mym) ; [Ba^tala] 
"foot of a bata tree’’ (Mym) ; [Haritakitala] 

“foot of a haritaki tree” (Mym); [Jaraitala] (jarai^jarula) 
‘^foot of a jarula tree” (Mym) ; [Taltala] “foot 

of a palm tree” (Dac, Khu) ; [gimultala] “foot of a 

Simula tree” (Dac) ; [Sonatala] “foot of a sona tree or 

plant” (Dac, Bar, How); [Candantala] “foot of a sandal 

tree” (Far); [Khajurtala] “foot of a date-palm tree” 

(Bar); [Kapa^tala] “foot of a cotton-plant”; [Tetai- 

tala] OSt^S'S^Tl (Tetai = Tetula) “foot of a tamarind tree” (Tip); 
[Kadaratala] “foot of a kadamba tree” (Khu) ; [Gabtala] 

911^^ “foot of a gaba tree” (Khu) ; [Bakultala] “foot 

of a bakula tree” (Khu); [Ghilatala] Relt'S'li “foot of a ghila 
tree” (Khu) ; [Canpatala] “foot of a canpa flower plant” 

(Jes) ; [Sriphaltala] “foot of a Mphala tree” (Jes) ; 

[Hijaltala] “foot of a hijala tree” (Jes); [Khayertala] 

“foot of a khadira tree” (Jes) ; [Dumurtala] 

“foot of a dumbura tree” (Jes) ; [Cbatiyantala] “foot 

of a chatiyan tree” (Jes); [Amtala] “foot of a mango 

tree ^‘(How, Mym); [Kultala] “foot of a palm tree” (Hug) 

[Cakdigbi] “containing a square tank” (Dac); [Najir- 

dlghi] “containing a tank made by one Najir” (Dac). 

[Bamunpukur] “containing a tank made by a 

Brahmin” (Bur); [Padmapukur] “containing a tank of 

lotus” (24-P) ; [Kuipukur] “containing a tank of Bui 

fish” (Nad) ; [Candanpukur] “containing a tank with 

a sandal tree near it” [Belpukur] “containing a tank 

with a bilva tree near it” (Din) ; [Tetulpukur] 

“containing a tank with a tamarind tree near it” (Baj) ; 
[Nonapukur] “containing a salt tank” (Mai); [Kamar- 

pukur] “containing a tank made by smiths” (Hug). 

(iv) Descriptive of the Caste or Profession of the Inhabitants 

[Kulingram] “the village inhabited by kulins^’ 

(Bur); [Pathangram] “the village inhabited by 



K. P. GOSWAMI 


Pathans” (Bur) ; [Brahmangram] *Hhe village inhabit- 
ed by Brahmins” (Hug); [Rudragram] “the village 

inhabited by Rudras” (Mym) ; [Kajlgram] “the village 

inhabited by Kajis” (Mym) ; [Kocgram] “the village 

inhabited by Koches” (Din) ; [Rautgram] “the village 

inhabited by Rauts” (Din) ; [Kamargaflo] TpTlH’fbQ ‘‘the village 
inhabited by smiths” (Dac, Par, Mym) ; [Candalgano] 5'0t«^’fhS 
“the village inhabited by Candalas” (Mym); [Kahetgano]^tC5^’fhS 
“the village inhabited by Kayasthas” (Mym) ; [Rfijaragano] 
“the village of a king” (Tip); [Ghosgafio] “the 

village of cowherds” (Mym) ; [Dasergano] “the village 

inhabited by people with the surname of Dasa” (Mym) ; [Nager- 
gafin] “the village inhabited by people with the surname 

of Naga” (Mym); [Bamunpara] “the settlement of 

Brahmins” (a very common name in West Bengal); [Joglpara] 
“the settlement of Jogis” (Jes) ; [Baruipara] 

“the settlement of betel-nut growers” (Khu, 24-P) ; [Bhadrapara] 
“the settlement of higher class people” (How) ; [Panda- 
para] ♦ft'OpTbSl “the settlement of Pandas” (Mym); [Brahman- 
para] i3t^*t^^“the settlement of Brahmins” (Mym, Din) ; [(to- 
yalpara] C’tBlt^’ThSl “the settlement of cowherds” (Bar); [b'aja- 
para] “a village inhabited by a king” (Bar) ; [Mollapara] 

C*rtlt*1p5l “the settlement of Mollas” (Din) ; [Bhatpara] 

“the settlement of Bhattas” (Dac, 24-P) ; [Bhattacaryyapara] 
'5|t5t^*tb5l “the village inhabited by people with the surname 
of Bhattacaryya” (Mym); [Gonsaipara] “a village 

inhabited by people with the surname of Gosvamis” (Mym) ; 
[Kayasthapalll] “the village of Kayasthas” (Mym); 

[Purohitpur] “the city of priests” (Khu) ; [Brahman- 

pur] “the city of Brahmins” (Nad) ; [Gonsaipur] 

“the city of Gosvamis” (Mym); [Jogibari] “the house 

of yogis” (Mym) ; [Baidyabari] “the house of Baidyas” 

(Mym) ; [Rajganj] “the market-town of a king” (Mym) ; 

[G tfisaiganj] “the market-town of Gosvamis” (Mym) ; 

[KumSrganj] “the market- town of potters” (Bur). 



PLACE-NAMES OP BEiJGAL ^ 

Semantic : Learned Origin 
(i) Purely Eulogistic 

[Goas] C’tt^ ( = Gopava8a) “the abode of Gopas” (Khu) ; 
[Dhamfls] ( = Dharmavasa) “the abode of Dbarma” (Bur) ; 

[Candlas] 5'€t'®rt5l ( = Candiv&sa) “the abode of Candi” (Mid). 

[Sihgas] ( = Sirnhavasa) “the lair of a lion” ; [Indas] 
( = Indravasa) “the abode of Indra” (Bir, Ban) ; [Deoas] 
(= Devavasa) “the abode of a god” (Bir) ; 

[Kagas] Tt’ft’T ( = Kakavasa) “the nest or roost of a crow” 
(Bir) ; 

[Taras] ( = Tatava8a) “a settlement on a river-bank” 
(Pab) ; [Dhoas] ( =- Dhopavasa) “the bouse of a washer- 

man” (Baj) ; [Jaugan] ( = Jatugrama) “the village of lac” 
(Bur) ; 

[Mougaii] CHt^U = Madbugrama) “the village of honey”, 
(it) Names of Local Deities 

[Bhadresvara] (Hug) ; [Tarake^vara] (Hug) ; 

[Bakresvara] (Bir) ; [Mantre^vara] (Bur) ; [Kapi- 

le^vara] (24-P) ; [Muktesvara] (Mid) ; [Dvar- 

basinl] (Hug) ; [Kalighat] (Cal) ; [Gopmath- 

batl] (Mym) ; [Daksine^vara] (24-P), etc. 

(in) Names of villages beginning with the names of deities 

To this sub-division must belong the numerous names of 
gods such as Rama, Krsna, Durga, Siva, Hari, Kali, Laksmi, etc. 

Thus, [Rampur] (Mym) ; [Durgapur] (Mym) ; 

[Krsnapur] (Tip, Mym); [Govardhanpur] 

(Mid) ; [Jagannathpur] (Syl) ; [Janardanpur] 

(Mid) ; [Durgapur] (Far, Raj) ; [Durgabari] 

(Mym); [Kalibari] (Mym); [Vi§nupur] 

(Mym), etc. 



TO 


K. P. aOSWAMl 


(iv) Names of villages celebrating prominent local persons 

Thus, [ArjjunpurJ (Mur); [AnandapurJ 'Sffsw- 

(Mid); [Abdulpur] (Raj); [Hemnagar] 

(Mym); [Pratapnagar] (Khu) ; [Prasannaganj] 

(Fad); [Selimabad] (Par) ; [Ramesvarganj] 

(Mym), etc. 

(p) Names of plants, flowers and other objects 

Names of plants and flowers have exerted a considerable 
influence on the formation of place-names. A large number 
of place-names in Bengal and other provinces in India 
originated from names connected with trees, plants, flowers, etc. 

Thus we find, [Sa^a] *1*11 (Mym); (Mukhi) (Mym); 
[Jalphai] (Mym) ; [Bet] (Mym) ; [Fatal] *t^(Mym) ; 
[Kanthal) (Mym) ; [Gaksur] (Tip) ; [Jagadumbur] 

(Bog) ; [Bayra] ^'5l (Raj) ; [Bell] (Khu) ; [Sn- 
phalaj (Jes) ; [Sihgra] f51t55l (Jes) ; [Arbara] 

(Mai); [Lehgra] (?l*^(Raj) ; [Gandhabadull] (=presenl- 

day Gandhale, (-4-?) ; [Bablaj (Bur) ; [Pumur] 

(Bur) ; [Amra (Bur) ; [Jagulj (Bur, Mid) ; 

[Pitanau] (nau<alabu) (Mid) ; (Pita is a very 

common word in the Oriya language and is used in the sense of 
bitter; it is quite likely that the word has come from Sanskrit 
pitta, although it may be a variant of the word tita<tikta, which 
is a case of dissimilation). 

[Khagra] (Mid); 

[Sonamukhi] (7lt*rt^'«rt (Mid). 

Besides these, we find many more names which have under- 
gone various phonological changes in a curious manner, through 
the influence of local dialects, and, as such, it is rather diflRcult 
to give any philological interpretation of these names, unless 
further materials are coming to light. The compound and 
disguised compound names will be treated later on. 



WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

NOVELIST AND STORY-TELLER 

A STUDY 

BY 

NITISH KUMAR BASU 
CHAPTER I 

Popularity and the Intelligentsia 

It is admittedly a difficult task to pronounce any opinion 
on an author who does not belong to one’s own country. It 
is only natural for us to look out for the light coming from 
the compatriots of the author. We recognise a saint by his 
aureole. We are afraid in fact of passing an independent 
judgment. No wonder that there are people who take 
Maugham to be only a writer of pot-boilers. They judge him 
from the prevailing critical attitude towards him in England, 
which is not very flattering. The critics have not made dis- 
paraging remarks about him ; they have done what is worse, 
they have ignored him. In a big volume of the history of 
English literature, if Maugham is noticed at all, he does not 
get more than a few Unes. 

It is not that he has no popularity ; indeed there can 
be no question about his popularity. His latest novel 
Theatre (1937) was reprinted thrice in one year. Five 
gf his plays were simultaneously represented on the stage 



2 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

in London in 1907. “ I saw the lot, ” says Sir John Squire, 

“ and often wonder why that most ingenious and roaring 
funny play, Jack Straw, is never revived.” ^ And Sir John 
Squire echoes what the British public thinks of Maugham’s 
plays. But unfortunately Maugham lost by his popularity 
the good opinion of the intelligentsia. “ I have no illusion 
about my literary position, ” said Maugham in 1938, “ there 
are but two important critics in England who have taken me 
seriously.” ^ 

The attitude of the critics however is variable ; at one 
time the theory of art for art held sway and the critics accepted 
it as the basis of their literary appraisement. But the critical 
view has since changed and the critics mostly now follow 
the doctrine of Bernard Shaw, that “ the man, who says art 
for art’s sake, is a fool.” Maugham thinks that it is from 
this point of view that the intelligentsia look down upon the 
popular plays he has Avritten. Maugham had certainly catered 
to the public “ who wanted to laugh or enjoy a theme of love, 
or to feel for death and be awed by the destiny of man.” 
Maugham’s defence of his materials and methods is worth 
consideration. “ If I had continued to write j)lays as bitter 
as A Man of Honour or as sardonic as Loaves and Fishes, I 
should never have been given the opportunity of producing 
certain pieces to which not even the most severe have re- 
fused praise.” ® But the impression once produced is very 
difficult to remove. It is very unfortunate, since this has 
also prevented the critics from looking into Maugham’s novels 
seriously. 

Maugham’s remarks on this attitude of the critics may 
seem a little pungent but they are nevertheless very shrewd : 

The elect sneers at popularity. 'J’hoy are inclined even to aasert 
that it is a proof of mediocrity ; but they forget that posterity makes its choice 


^ Illustrated London News, Feb., 12, 1033 
* The Summing Up. 

» Ibid. 



iJITISH KUMAR BASU 


3 


tiot from among the unknown writers of a period, but from the known. ..... 

It may be that posterity may scrap all the best-sellers of our day, but it i s 
among them that it must choose. ^ 

It is only in the distant future that the verdict of the people 
and that of the intelligentsia meet. It reminds one of the 
mathematical truth of parallel straight lines meeting at in- 
finity. It is a notorious truth ; contemporary verdicts of 
the people and of ‘ the elect ’ are seldom the same. 

It is not very difficult for us to guess why Maugham 
is not held in very high esteem by the English critics. Maugham 
suggests delicately that the reason lies in the lack of the spirit 
of propaganda in his work. ^ He does not go much deeper 
than this. The real reason however lies elsewdiere. It will 
be a mistake to think that the English critics of to-day ignore 
all writers who are not propagandists. There are writers 
w'ho are not propagandists and yet are not ignored. When 
we go deeply into the cause of their popularity with the in- 
telligentsia we cannot but suspect that generally it is some- 
thing novel, something very striking and bold either in form 
or in contents that claims the attention of the critics. It is 
only natural to be more easily attracted by a bold colour than 
by a mild one. When the critics praise James Joyce or Vir- 
ginia Woolf, they do that because they are awed by the immense 
daring of their e.xperiments. The boldness of 1). H. Lawrence 
forces their eyes on to him. It is some dazzhng colour or 
other that marks them out from their contemporaries, which 
attracts the critics and makes them appreciate their genius 
in other respects. Somerset Maugham has no such distin- 
guishing colour. He has not attempted any innovation in 
form. He has not drawn the critics’ attention to the psycho- 
logical subtleties in his work by displaying a bold indecency 
like that in Lady Ghatterley's Lover. He has not even 


1 Cakes and Ale. 

* The Summing Up. 



4 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


the spirit of propaganda which is the easiest means now of 
attracting the attention of the critics. Maugham has no 
doubt pointed out some inherent diseases of society but on 
account of his peculiar philosophy, as we shall see later, he 
has not been able to make such propaganda his only aim, as 
Bernard Shaw has done. He takes hfe to be a “ painted veil ” 
and for him to set about earnestly to reform society, is ridi- 
culous. We shall see later that the reformer is not altogether 
absent from his novels and short stories but that is so hidden 
under his fascinating power of story-telling that the critics, 
used to the blunt cudgelling of Bernard Shaw and his school, 
fail to take that seriously. 

The fact remains that very few critics believe that 
Maugham wiU be remembered, say, fifty years hence, or that 
he will try against the big names of the day “ the question 
with the posterity. ” But one should not be surprised if 
the laurel be placed on his head by a discerning posterity. 
Maugham does not show an unjustified vanity when he issues 
the challenge : 

The history of criticism is there to show that contemporary criti- 
eism is fallible. 


Th$ Summing Up. 



CHAPTER II 


The Soil and the Seed 

In the year 1884, at the age of ten, Somerset Maugham 
came to settle in England and be educated like an English 
boy. His father, perhaps “ drawn by some such restlessness 
for the unknown as has consumed his son, went to Paris and 
became solicitor to the British Embassy.” ^ His mother was 
a beautiful woman, he informs us, and his parents were known 
as “ Beauty and the Beast ” in the Paris of that time. She 
was probably a woman of character and perhaps she had some 
talent ; she wrote some novels in French and composed the 
music for some drawing room ballads. When Maugham lost 
both of them — his mother at eight and his father at ten — 
he came to England and his uncle and guardian, the Vicar of 
Whitstable, sent him to a preparatory school, an annexe 
of the King’s school. “ I have never forgotten the roar of 
laughter that abashed me when in my preparatory school 
I read out the phrase ‘ unstable as water ’ as though unstable 
rhymed with Dunstable,” ^ he says. The fact was that he 
was educated as a French boy. In Paris he had a French 
nurse and had been to a French school. French became prac- 
tically his mother tongue ; he refers in his autobiography 
to an incident of his childhood ; seeing a horse out of a rail- 
way window, he had cried out in French. After he had been 
taken away from the French school, he used to have lessons 
under a clergyman at the church attached to the Embassy. 
But he was not taught seriously and systematically. More- 
over, it was not for long. 

1 The Summing Up, 

• Tbid, 



6 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

For a time Maugham liked the King’s school to which 
he went after the preparatory school. But that was not for 
long and he persuaded his uncle to let him go to Germany 
and learn German. After a year or so he returned from Ger- 
many and as he was not very keen to be subjected once more 
to discipline in Cambridge it was decided that he should take 
up the medical profession. And he entered St. Thomas’ Hos- 
pital in the autumn of 1892. 

Maugham must have inherited his artistic sense from 
his mother. His grandfather from his father’s side was 
indeed the author of many volumes of law books, but then 
it is very difficult to find an artistic sense in such dry produc- 
tions. In the medical school, we see for the first time this 
seed germinating. He found the first two years of the curri- 
culum very dull and gave his work “ no more attention than 
was necessary to scrape through the examinations.” ^ In 
his spare time, he began to fill his notebooks with “ ideas for 
stories and plays, scraps of dialogue and reflections on what 
my reading and the various experiences that I was under- 
going suggested to me.” ^ 

That dull period of the curriculum over, he began to 
find interest in his work. He had to attend to a number of 
confinements to get a certificate and for that he had to go into 
the slums of Lambeth. It was one of the most important 

periods of his life. “ For here I was in contact with 

life in the raw. In those three years I must have witnessed 
pretty well every emotion of which man is capable. It appeal- 
ed to my dramatic instinct. It excited the novelist in me. 
Even now that forty years have passed I can remember certain 
people so exactly that I could draw a picture of them. Phrases 
that I heard then still linger on my ears. I saw how men 
died. I saw how they bore pain. I saw what hope looked 
’ike, fear and relief ; I saw the dark lines that despair drew 


^ The Summing Up. 
* Ibid. 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


7 


on a face ; I saw courage and steadfastness. I saw faith 
shine in the eyes of those who trusted in what I could only 
think was an illusion and I saw the gallantry that made a 
man greet the prognosis of death with an ironic joke because 
he was too proud to let those aboxit him see the terror of his 
soul.” ^ This experience was the foundation on which he built 
up his career as a writer, as a p<ainter of life and character. 

Liza of Lambeth (1897) was his first novel. He 
had written two stories and had sent them to Fisher Unwin. 
After some time Unwin returned them but he asked Maugham 
whether he had not a novel to publish. This encouraged 
Maugham and utilising the spare time he had (he stiU had 
to work in the Hospital all day), he wrote his first novel. It 
was entirely based on the incidents that he saw when he was 
an Obstetric Clerk. The field for that novel was well-prepared. 
Arthur Morrison with his Talcs of Mean Street and A Child 
of the Jaxp had drawn the attention of the public to the slums 
and Maugham got the full benefit of the new interest created 
in the subject. The book was a success and the eyes of the 
intelligentsia were turned to the new star arising. Fisher 
Unwin pressed him for another bigger novel based on the 
slums. If Maugham had taken his advice, he would have been 
regarded as a slum novelist and nothing more. He could 
not have perhaps risen above the narrow bounds of that. 
But he was ambitious and sent to his publisher a novel of an 
entirely different type. It was a novel written in accordance 
with an advice given by Andrew Lang that a young author 
without much experience of life should try his hand at his- 
torical fiction. The Making of a Saint (1898) was set in 
the Italy of the Renaissance period. 

He was gathering experience. And whenever he had 
opportunity he travelled on the Continent. It was in Italy 
that he first tried his hand at play-writing. But his first 


1 Summing Up* 



8 WILLIAM SOMEESBT MAUGHAM 

full-length play (not considering the curtain-raisers) he wrote 
when he had already published the two novels mentioned. 
It was The Man of Honour (1898). But no manager 
accepted it and after a considerable time he rewrote it and 
sent it to the Stage Society which accepted it. 

By now he was qualified as a doctor. But he did not 
try to establish himself as a medical practitioner as was ex- 
pected ; on the contrary he set himself to making a name 
as a writer. He wrote a number of plays and novels and short 
stories, none of which however needs mentioning except 
Mrs. Craddock (1902) which had some success. But it was 
still a green fruit. He was now' seriously trying to become 
a dramatist. He felt that he had genius in that field ; but 
no manager recognised it before 1907. That year he had 
his first success as a dramatist and it was a spectacular one. 
He had then five dramas running in London. They were 
A Man of Honour, Mrs. Dot, Lady Frederick, Jack Straw, and 
The Explorer. 

Up to the year 1915 we see him mainly as a dramatist. 
He thought drama to be his medium of expression ; he could 
write the dialogues well ; but he says, “ when it came to a 
page of description I found myself entangled in all sorts of 
quandaries.” ^ That does not mean that he had altogether 
given up his idea to be a novelist. He wrote a few novels, 
but they were, we may say, merely by way of experiment. 
It was not till 1915 that we see his emergence as a novel writer. 
He wrote Of Human Bondage, which is to some extent 
autobiographical. 

The War came and it provided Maugham with fresh 
experiences. He first joined a unit of ambulance cars and 
afterwards he was transferred to the Intelligence Department. 
It was quite an interesting life, though not as thrilling as is 
represented in detective novels, and it gave him the themes 


' The Summing Up, 



NITISH KUMAB BASTJ 


9 


for his detective stories which he wrote in the twenties of this 
century. He was posted in Switzerland. After a year, when 
his services were no longer required there, he went to America 
and thence to the South Seas. This journey (which was 
undertaken apparently for reasons of health but really for 
the sentimental purpose of seeing the land of which he had 
dreamt from his boyhood when he read romantic books about 
the islands) opened a new field before him. He owes to that 
journey his claim as one of the best English short-story writers. 

When he came back he was sent on a mission to Petro- 
grad. He was sent to prevent the Bolsheviks from seizing 
power. But within three months the Government was over- 
thrown and he returned to England, very iU. At last 
tuberculosis which had threatened him from his childhood 
got a hold upon him and he was sent to a sanatorium in the 
north of Scotland. It was a new experience and he admits 
that he “ learnt a good deal about human nature in that 
sanatorium ” ^ which otherwise he would never have known. 

This period of convalescence was the beginning of one 
of the most fruitful periods of his life. When engaged in 
arduous activities as an Intelligence Officer in the War he 
found that play-writing was a “ convenient means of dis- 
tracting attention from the activities he was engaged in.” 
He wrote Our Betters, which was the first of a series of 
‘ comedy of manners. ’ When he had to spend his time in 
bed, after he had contracted tuberculosis, he found play- 
writing “ a pleasant way of passing the time. ” ^ 

When he recovered from his illness he went to China, 
This was the last of his long tours. ® After that he settled 
down and began to utilise his experiences. He wrote short 
stories and novels based on the experiences gathered from 


^ The Summing Up. 

* Ibid. 

» He visited India in 1938 but it is not yet known if he has made 
•ny use of the experiences gathered from that tour. 

2—1246 B.J. 



10 . WmiAM SOMEBSET MAIJOHAM 

the travels. He was now a mature writer and he wrote plays, 
novels and short stories with equal aptitude. It is no use 
going into his life any further. A writer usually bases his 
book mainly on his experiences and we have already dealt 
in brief with the experiences which he afterwards utilised. 



CHAPTER III 
Influences at Woek 

I 

Of Masters 

Mr. Desmond McCarthy has described Maugham as 
“ the English Maupassant ” and of course as a striking label 
it sounds as good as any other ; but hke all such compact judg- 
ments, this fails to give the proper impression ; it is truth 
but not the whole truth. Maugham himself admits that he 
was very fond of Maupassant and had finished all his works 
before he was eighteen. “ It is natural enough, ” he says, 
“ that when at that age I began writing stories myself I should 
unconsciously have chosen these little masterpieces as a model. 
I might very well have hit upon a worse.” ^ Maupassant in 
fact served as a ladder ; he served as a model to the appren- 
tice ; but to label the mature writer Maugham as the English 
Maupassant is an injustice though a well-meaning one. 

The genius of Maupassant lies in his captivating power 
of story-telling. The stories, say, Boide de Suif, L'Heritage 
or La Parure, need no power of narration to make them in- 
teresting. This merit of Maupassant naturally attracted 
Maugham and was perhaps a factor in forming his taste for 
the story interest. For all we know, he might have had an 
inclination for that irrespective of Maupassant’s influence ; 
what Maupassant did, was to strengthen that inclination. 
Maugham likes to tell a story with a beginning, a middle and 
an end, just like Maupassant, and that is the only ground in 
common between the two. 


^ Preface, Altogether. 



12 , WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

There is another fact that at first seems to point to 
the influence of Maupassant on Maugham ; it is the obvious 
stress laid on the infidelity of women in Maugham’s stories. 
In Maupassant’s time infidelity was a thing of fashion, Mau- 
passant in fact could ^ not conceive a character like Neil 
Macadam, ^ a pure soul with an instinctive horror of infidelity, 
without a derisive sneer. In Maugham’s case it is different. 
In books like Mrs. Craddock, written at the time when 
we may suppose that he was steeped in Maupassant, we get 
chaste or rather constant women. When afterwards he becomes 
obsessed with that idiosyncrasy, we cannot say that Maupas- 
sant had anything to do with it-;-it grew with the growth of 
his philosophy of fife. ^ 

Maupassant’s influence indeed does not go beyond the 
taste for story interest. But that at first seems so great a 
factor that we are apt to overlook the other factors which 
go to build up a story of Maugham. Maupassant takes much 
less interest in characters than in plots. He does not generally 
try to analyse characters. He gives a few broad business 
hke touches, just sufficient to be a peg to hang his story on. 
With Maugham, however, it is an entirely different story. 
Maugham’s method is to conceive a character first — mostly 
taking a real person as basis and then to fit in a plot con- 
sistent with the peculiarities of that character ; naturally 
enough his characters are much more deeply sketched than 
Maupassant’s. They are three-dimensional and very con- 
vincing whereas Maupassant’s characters as characters leave 
very httle impress on the reader’s mind ; on second 
thought they are found to be rather unconvincing. More- 
over, Maupassant never tries to go beyond what is apparent. 


^ Neii Macadam, Ah King, 

2 Vide Chapter VII, Section VII. 

3 “I have taken living people and put them into the situations tragic of 
comic that their characters suggested. ’ (The Summing Up,) For details vide Chapter' 
IV, Sec. V. 



NITISH KTJMAE BASTT 


IS 


He makes men act but never tries to find out a deeply 
laid cause of such an action. Maugham tries to find the why 
and the wherefore. Where he does not impart the sense of 
the freakishness of fate, he shows some cause of the result 
in the characters themselves or in the environment. A Philip, 
to some extent, has to thank, for his miseries, his gentlemanli- 
ness and his inner craving for love and affection, a natural 
trait in an orphan. ^ The cause of the crumbling down of the 
happy nest built by Doris and Guy Hes in the prejudice created 
in Doris by the environment in which she is brought up. ^ This 
is done in every one of Maugham’s novels, plays or short 
stories. 

Maupassant falls far short of Maugham in his power 
of character-sketching. In fact none can teach a writer the 
method of making a character three-dimensional ; that power 
is instinctive and cannot be taught. For that Maugham is 
not indebted to anybody. But he is greatly indebted to 
Maupassant for freeing him from the morbid influence of Chekov 
to which many of Maugham’s contemporaries bowed their 
heads, and guiding his taste in the direction which suited his 
genius, namely, the creation of story interest. 

When Maugham began to write short stories seriously, 
he found himself at a disadvantage. Chekov had at that 
time taken hold of the literary world. To admire him had 
become a sign of good taste. Writers had begun to imitate 
him ; Chekov showed them that they could do without a 
plot ; what they needed to write a story was only a certain 
captivating manner of writing ; he showed them the way 
of writing a story by only describing the relations between 
a few persons. No wonder they fell for him. It was taken 
to be the most natural thing in the world and those like Maugham 
who did not imitate Chekov were rather out of favour. It 
was very likely the taste for well-knit plot which Maupassant 

1 Of Human Bondage, 

• Foret of Circumstance t Altogether* 



14 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


helped to form, that prevented Maugham from imitating 
Chekov. 

Maugham has not transported “ Russian melancholy, 
Russian futility, Russian infirmity of purpose to Surrey or 
Michigan, Brooklyn or Clapham,” ^ unlike many writers of 
his day. Some sort of a sense of futility and melancholy, 
however, we can find in Maugham’s writings. Sometimes 
we find a sense of man fighting with fate ; Blanche Stroeve 
tries vainly to ward off the coming danger which she can 
instinctively feel ^ ; when Philip gets some peace. Fate throws 
Mildred on his path to mortify him. ® Harold with the help 
of his wife Millicent again and again tries to give up the drink- 
ing habit but Fate is too strong for him ; some incidents occur, 
some guests turn up and he has to make them merry, or malaria 
weakens his body and mind and he again resumes his old 
habit.^ There is another Chekovian element in Maugham ; 
it is the indifference and callousness of the people. Every- 
body is concerned with his own interest. None cares for 
other people. When Liza lies dying, all the while funny 
selfish talk is going on. Mrs. Kemp has the consolation tl\at 
Liza is insured. The thing that pains Mrs. Kemp is not that 
her daughter is going to die but that such botheration should 
happen to her.® When Millicent tells the story (being pressed 
by her parents to tell it) how she came to murder her husband, 
her father says, “ I ought never to have been told, it was most 
selfish of you ” ; even a father eannot sympathise with and 
share the grief of his daughter.® Gallegher’s death does not 
prevent the Christmas Day being celebrated on board the 
ship ; and it was not long before “ Mrs. Linsell and the doctor 
resumed flirtation ” which the strange illness of Gallegher 

* The Summing Up, 

* The Moon and Sixpence. 

* Of Human Bondage. 

^ Before the Party ^ Altogether, 

® Jjiza of Lambeth, 

* Before the Party, Altogether. 



NITISH KUMAB BA8TT 


16 


had for a time interrupted.^ The world is like that and 
Maugham paints it as it is. But there is a great difference 
between Maugham and Chekov. The latter always creates 
an atmosphere of futility and callousness ; that is • the only 
side of the world he can see. He was “ a sick overworked 

grey-minded man For Chekov life is like a game of 

billiards in which you never pot the red, bring off a losing 
hazard or make a cannon, and should you by a miraculous 
chance get a fluke you will almost certainly cut the cloth.” * 
But Maugham’s is a healthy mind and he can see the sympathy 
and joy as well as callousness and suffering. This callousness 
does not blind his vison ; to him callous self-centred people 
like Mr. Swan ^ or Lady Kitty ^ are mere “ cases,” they are 
not the only people in Maugham’s world. 

It is not quite right to ascribe this sense of futility 
and callousness to the influence of Chekov. This pessimism 
has always accompanied a searching intellect. In Chekov 
this only goes to one extreme. It is most likely that this 
pessimism in Maugham grew by itself. Even if it is the result 
of influence from outside, he might have been more beholden 
to Thomas Hardy than to a Russian whose attitude towards 
life hewdoes not seem to have always looked upon with favour. 

The extent of the influence of Maupassant and Chekov 
on Maugham is rather uncertain and can be but the subject 
of speculation. But there are two masters of whose influence 
on him, small as it is, we can be more certain. They are 
Ibsen and Oscar Wilde. This influence, however, deserves 
only a passing mention. It is found only in some of his plays. 
Ibsen’s influence we can see in The Man of Honour and no- 
where else in an appreciable measure. The influence of Oscar 
Wilde is of more importance ; Maugham’s early plays like 

^ P, S 0., Altogether. 

. • Preface, Altogether. 

• The Narrow Corner. 

* The CireHe. 



16 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


Lady Frederick, Jack Strata, etc., bear ample traces of the witty 
and artificial dialogue which Oscar Wilde brought into vogue. 
His other dramas too like the The Circle show slight traces 
of the same influence. 

It is possible to exaggerate the extent of the masters’ 
influence on Maugham ; for, as a matter of fact, Maugham 
was influenced by the age and his own experiences more than 
by his masters. 


II 

Of the Age 

A writer generally is a product of his age and Maugham 
is no exception. He belongs to an age that has been called 
“ an Age of Interrogation ” ; this age does not take anything 
at its face value, it tries to go to the root of everything ; and 
Maugham is typical of the twentieth centmy. He has taken 
up an attitude of enquiry. We are, however, not concerned 
here with such a vague influence. We are concerned here 
with such glaring characteristics as Maugham has in common 
with the general run of contemporary writers. 

One of the most prominent tendencies of the twentieth 
century writers is to satirise the aristocratic society. In 
Maugham we do not find this tendency so strong as in, say, 
Bernard Shaw or Galsworthy. Scattered through his work 
there are hints of this tendency which becomes prominent 
in a drama by Maugham called Our Betters, where it is 
noticeable in a very marked degree. 

Maugham like his contemporaries is convinced of the 
rottenness of the aristocratic society. In Our Betters 
he tears away the painted veil which had concealed the ugli- 
ness of the real state of that society. Fleming remarks : 

There is something in these surroundings that makes me feel terribly 
uncomfortable. Under the brilliant surface I suspect all kinds of ugly and 



NITISH KUMAE BASU 


17 


shameful secrets that everyone knows and pretends not to. This is a strange 
house in which the husband is never seen and Arthur Fenwick, a vulgar sen- 
sualist, acts as host ; and it’s an attractive spectacle, this painted duchess 
devouring with her eyes a boy young enough to be her son and the conversa- 
tion [ don t want to seem prude, I dare say people over here talk more 
frcejy than the i)eoplo I’ve known. ^ 

Maugham paints a society, where there is no naturalness, no 
peace, no frankness, no honesty. The words of Pearl to 
Bessie disclose a horrible state of society : 

Flio Glostor, Sadie Twickenham, Naimie Hartlepool you don’t 

imagine they’re faithful to their husbands. Tiiey didn’t marry them for 
that. 

This is a touch by which Maugham imparts the sense of uni- 
versality of that rottenness ; it is not confined to Pearl and 
the duchess aloue bat it extends to many others. The first 
impression the play imparts, is that Maugham is condemning 
sexual infidelity. But that is not the case. Sexual infidelity 
doc.s not count very much with Maugham. Going much 
deeper he reveals the true state of the present aristocratic 
society of England. It is money that gives one status in that 
society. A peer there marric's a girl for her dowry and does 
not care much whether she remains faithful to him or not. 
He does iiot ignore a lapse in his wife for the sake of peace and 
happiiK‘ss (for the sake of which Maugham advocates tole- 
rance), but ignores it because it is to his interest to tolerate 
that, his concern being with money. Maugham seeks to 
expose the inherent rottenness of the society which allows 
itself to be bought and sold. Pearl sneers at the English 
and boasts openly ; 

We have to force ourselves upon them The English can 

never resist getting sometliing for nothing. If a fiddler is in vogue, they’ll 
hear him at my concert I’ve got power, I’ve got influence. But 

• ^ Out Betters. 

* Vide Chapter VII, Section VII. 

3--1245 B.J. 



18 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


everything I have got — my success, my reputation, notoriety — IVe bought it, 
bought it, bought it. ^ 

Maugham, however, is not a propagandist but an artist. The 
condition of the aristocratic^ society for once provided him 
with a theme for a drama but he does not like to use it over 
and over again. In one or two other plays he also makes sly 
hits at the rotten society but nowhere else does this satirising 
tendency get the upper hand ; it remains subordinate. 

An author, sjjccially one who has to depend iqjon the 
pixblic for his livelihood, has to rcs 2 )ect the conventions of 
society in which he lives. Before the war 0 ])en discussion 
about matters concerning sex - was taboo. Maugham .says 
in JJrs. Craddock (1902), “ It is tcrribl(> to be desirous of saying 
ail sorts of passionate things, while convention prevents you 
from s})eaking anything but tbc most commonplace.'' The 
result is that all through the boolc we see Maugham indulge' 
in sentimentality which comes out of the suppre.ssed .sexual 
atmosphere. In that book there are ])urj)lc patches which 
we do not get in the books written after the War. We get 
there phrases like ‘ beautiful youth, ' ‘ a virgin heart, ' the. ; 
Bertha Craddock asserts that she is sullering so much 
that she could kill herself.” In The Hero Jaint's .says to 
Mrs. Clibborn, “ What can you do to ease the* bitter aching 
of my heart ?” This kind of sentimentality and melodramatic 
utterances at once point to an undcrcanrent of physical ])a.ssion 
and suppressed feeling which could not be frankly ex])re8sed 
in pre-War days. An embrace then had to stand for both 
embrace and something more and an author naturally took 
much pains to describe an embrace The change in public 
mentality effected a subtle change in the writings of Maugham ; 
in Cakes avd Ale, The Narroir Corner, The Painted Veil or 
Theatre, we never get such sentimental j)ur])le patches. The 


^ Our Betterii. 

2 Even such an innocent book as Mrs. Craddock was published by Heine* 
mann with omiseions. 



NITISH KTTMAR BAST7 


19 


description has become straightforward and matter-of-fact. 
Now he can call a spade a spade with impunity. 

There is one other matter in which a change in public 
taste has brought about a great change in the art of ah author. 
Tn the last decade of the niueteenth century Oscar Wilde 
created a vogue for artificial sparkling dialogues and the 
puldic taste did not change till after the War. Gradually the 
vogue of colloquialism in drama came into existence as a 
result of a (hmiand for naturalism on the stage. As a result 
the dramatists harl to give uf) the mode of Oscar Wilde and 
make tlu'ir dialogues colkxiiiial. Maugham is one of the 
di'amatisis who had to adaid him.self to this change in public 
taste. In eaiii('i‘ di'anias lik(‘ Ijidy Frederick we get ample 
])ro()f of the influcnc(‘ of the school of O.scar Wilde, but in 
n'cent dramas like, say, 'Jlie Circle, though there is a consi- 
derable amount of witty dialogue, they are all in colloquial 
and sini|)le language. "I'lie actors now have become so used 
to collocjuiali.sm that tluw become heljdess if the language 
lie otherwise. Maugham tells us of a sad experience of his.' 
in Sacred Flame he tried to make his characters speak 
not in the words they would have actually spoken, but in a 
more formal manner “ using phrases they would have used 
if they had been able to ])re})e.re tliem beforehand and had 
they knoM'ii how to put wliat they wanted to say in exact 
and well-chosen language.” But the actors w-ere unable to 
deliver that naturally and Maugham had to make slight altera- 
tions to suit them. This fact is not as insignificant as it may 
seem to a layman ; it has changed the whole character of the 
dialogue which is an essential factor in a play. 

Tlie influence of science on Maugham needs a passing 
mention here. The inexorable laws of Physics, i.e.., the laws 
of Nature, exact a reverence and awe from many modern 
English writers which Fate did from the ancient Greek Trage- 
dians. We may say that the laws of Nature have taken the 


1 The Summing Up. 



20 ’ 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


place of the Greek Fate. We shall discuss in detail the effect 
of this influence on Somerset Maugham later in Chapter VII 
(“ In Quest of Peace, ” Section 1). 

The greatest influence on the writers of to-day is per- 
haps that of Freud and his school of Psycho-analysis. The 
vogue of psycho-analysis is now so widespread that it has 
become a characteristic of the twentieth century, just like 
its other characteristic, social criticism. It has ceased to be 
the influence of a single scientist. It is now one of the in- 
fluences of the age. Psycho-analysis existed before Freud, 
but here what is particularly meant by the term is that portion 
of psycho-analysis which never existed before, the search 
into the subconscious and the unconscious. 

Except in one place ^ Maugham has never mentioned 
Freud ; still it would seem that he has been using the researches 
of the Freudian school in his novels from the very first. And 
this is only to be expected, for Maugham is a doctor. Of 
course, the influence of psj’cho-analysis has not entered into 
Maugham’s work so organically as it has for instance into 
that of Joyce. Still there are certain things in his no\Tl.s 
which bear strong marks of a Freudian j)arentage. 

One of his debts to Freud is dream symbolism ^ (for 
Freud is, without a doubt, the greatest psycho-analyst of our 
time to have analysed dreams). In Jxain this is used with 
a very striking effect. Davidson, the missionary, dreams a 
strange dream. 

“ This morning he told me that he’d been dreaming about the moun- 
tains of Nebraska, ” IVIi-s. Davidson says to Dr. Macphail. 

‘‘ That’s curious,” said Dr. Macphail. 

It is curious indeed ; Dr. Macphail remembers to have seen 
them through the windows of the train when he crossed 
America. “ They were hke huge mole hills, rounded and 

^ In Theatre, 

* VidcTrcnA, InUrprelation of Dreams, Chapter V; also. Dr. William Stekel, 
The Meaning of Dream Symbolism, 



NITISH KTJMAR BASF 


21 


smooth, and they rose from the plain abruptly.” It strikes 
Dr. Macphail that they are like a woman’s breasts. The 
meaning of this dream becomes very clear when Davidson 
commits suicide after having succumbed to the charms of 
Sadie Thom])son, the ” Scaik l Woman.” This dream shows 
which way tlie wind is blowing, 'i’hc subconscious mind is 
gradually getting the u])per hand. As long as Davidson had 
full control over his liody he had escaped. But when he is 
considerably weakened physically owing to. irregular dieting 
and even fasting, he gradually loses control over his body, 
and his subconscious thought fust shows its growing strength 
through that dream. Subconsciously Davidson, perhaps, was 
always inclined to sinning, and his militant hatred of the 
sinners, Sadie Thom])Son, and the natives unused to the 
restrictions of civilization, is only the outward expression of 
the inward stiaiggle l)etween tlu' conscious ])iety and ‘‘ the 
subconscious.” It has been asserted by the Psycho-analytic 
school of Freud * that a hidden inclination for one thing often 
produces a violent hatred on the surface against it. St. Paul’s 
joy in persecuting the C'hristians in his early life has been said 
to be the result of the reaction of the conscious against an 
inner inclination towards them. It w^as the same with David- 
son. Blanche Stroeve’s violent hatred for Strickland is ony 
the reaction of the conscious mind against the physical attrac- 
tion she leels for Strickland and to which she at last succumbs.^ 

Tlie dream is a favourite instrument Avith Maugham to 
rcA'cal the workings of the human mind. Cenerally of course 
he does not take the lie!}) of symboiisin it vould have gone 
over the heads of most ot his readers if he had, except such 
simple symbols as used in Hum. Neil Macadam, when sick 
and weak in body, dreams of Darya in his arms ; he knows 
that “ One can’t help one’s dreams, but they are an indication 

1 By the school of Psycho-analysis I have always meant the school of Freud 

and not of Jung or Adler. 

• The Moon and Siitpencep 



22 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


of what is going on in the subconscious.” ^ He struggles 
against that attempt of the subscious getting the upper hand 
and, unlike Davidson, succeeds. Kitty’s hope that Townsend 
really loves her, is revealed in a dream in which she dreams 
of Charlie Townsend embracing her and saying that it vas 
all a mistake. ^ The Russian journalist’s wife dreams that 
her husband is trying to kill her by throwing her over the 
balusters. The journalist commenting on that says to the 
narrator : 

She thought 1 hated her, she thought I would gladly be rid of her ; 
she know of course she was insufferable, and at some time or other the idea 
had evidently ociairred to her that I was capable of murdering her. 1’he 
thoughts of men are inealculable and ideas enter our minds that we should 
be ashamed to confess.^ 

It is a clear auitlysis. Dreams have been used before Freud 
drew our attention to their importance ; but it is undoubtedl}’ 
due to the influence of Freud that the}’ have betm given so 
much prominence in tliis century. 

JMaugham has also taken from the itsydio-analysts 
the theory of sublimation. Talking about the cause of Julia’s 
success Michael remarks : 

All those instincts went into her acting Sublimation. That’s 

it. I often think that’s what’s made her such a great actress.* 

The psycho-analysts have taught iMaugham that the same 
force incites the creative activities of the body as well tis those 
of art. When the body is starved the creative impulse produces 
artistic inspiration. In Maagham there is no instance where 
an artist is at the same time a pa.ssionate lover. The creative 
force, when denied one outlet, takes another. Charles Strick- 
land is able to put all his energies into painting when he is 

^ Nell Macadam, Ah king, 

^ The Painted Veil. 

® The Dream, Comiopoliians, 

* Theatre, 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


23 


throughly disgusted with sexual life. ^ Edward Driffield’s 
passion for Rosie exhausted, he is able to write his raaster- 
picee. 2 Mrs. Albert Forrester writes her masterpiece “ The 
Achilles Statue ” when her husband leaves her. ^ The theory 
of sublimation ^ does not apply only in the cases where the 
sexual energy has been diverted to the channel of creative 
art. It also applies in the ease of Walter, whose passion for 
Kitty being obstructed finds expression in his sacrifice for 
suffering humanity, or in the case of Kitty who takes to nursing 
babi(\s and other hmnanitarian works. ^ It may even be 
a])plied in the case of Michael who concentrates all his ener- 
gies in organising his theatn^ when Julia, his wife, gives up 
indulging in “ in all such nonsense.” 

’I’here are a few cases of sexual aberration in Maugham’s 
works. Here also one may trace the influence of the psycho- 
analysts. After the War such aberrations have become a 
very common thing and tlu* talk of the day. In Maugham's 
earliei’ woiks we cannot expect to find any use of that. In 
T/if'dfn (l{)37), he makes a dramatic use of it. Dolly de 
Vries has a passion for Julia. Julia points that out to Michael. 
“ A\’hat a filthy mind you ’ve got, Julia !” he exclaims. But 
that does not ])revent Michael from making use of Dolly’s 
homosexual tendency. Together they manage to get Dolly 
to finance their scheme of opening a theatre ; Julia good- 
humouredly points out to Michael that he is acting like Claudio 
in 3]ea-mre for Pleasure when he presses her to get round 
Dolly.’ Maugham does not make use of such aberrations 
frequently as many of his contemporaries arc doing. He 
never uses anything which does not help the progress of the 


^ The Moon and Su'pence. 

^ ( Vi/tw and Ale. 

» 7Vie Creative Impulse, First Person tSlngular, 

^ Vide Havelock Ellis, Psychology of Sex (in one volume). Chapter VIII. 
® The Painted Veil. 

® Theatre. 

’ Ibid. 



24 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

story. It would have been against his nature if he had used 
sexual perversity for its own sake. 

1^'hcre is another matter for which Maugham may be 
suspected of being directly indebted to the scientific school 
of psychology, though if. has been used by writers of antiquity. 
It is the theory of Sadism and Masochism. It has been found 
that there are some persons who like being tortured and love 
the tormentors better for the pain that they indict on them. 
In men this peculiar fact (masochism) is an aberration but in 
women it is to some extent natural. Sadism is quite the 
opposite. ^ Maugham used tliis even in his first novel, Liza 
of Lambeth. Liza succumbs to. Jim when he gives her 
“ a violent swinging blow on the stomach.” After that he 
commands, “ Come on ” and Liza loses all power of resistance. 
Jim’s brute force makes her love him and hate Tom who is 
gentle and tender. Bertha C!raddock remarks, “ It is a common- 
place that some wives will stand anything from their husbands ; 
it seems they love them all the more because they are brutal. 
I think I’m like that.” - When Lawson whips his wife Ethel 
she feels a strange exultation. “ What he had done did not 
outrage her when she looked at herself in the glass and arranged 
her hair, her eyes were shining. There was a strange look 
in them. Perhaps then she was nearer loving him than she 
had ever been before.” ^ Lawson’s addiction to wife-beating 
may be taken as an example of sadism as also the brutality 
of Jim ^ ; but Maugham does not make use of this as mueh 
as he makes use of masochism. •'* 

In the cases that we have looked into Maugham has 
not used the ordinary psychology of individuals., as the writers 

^ Vide Havelock Ellis, Psychology of Sex (in one volume), Chapter V. 

2 Mrs. Craddock. 

® The Pool, The Trembling of a Leaf. 

^ Liza of Lambeth. 

® Vide Havelock Ellis, Psychology of Sex (in one volume), Chapter IV. In 
Ins latest novel, Christmas Holiday, Maugham paints another extremely masochistic 
woman in Lydia. In the same book (p. 284) ] <> has slightly touched upon what is 
known as* CEdipus Complex.’ 



NITISH KTJMAE BASU 2S 

of old have always done ; like many of his contemporaries 
he has also drawn upon the fund of knowledge that Freud 
and others have provided his generation with. 


Ill 

Of Life and Career 

“ I have had a varied, and often an interesting life, 
but not an adventurous one,” Maugham remarks in his auto- 
biography ; one cannot but be amused by the comment made 
on this statement by Mr. R. H. Ward. He informs us : 

It is unnecessary for an artist to have an ‘ interesting ’ or an ‘ event- 
ful ’ life, for all life, however dull and ordinary it may appear, is interesting 

and eventful : it is human life, and that is enough. Remarkably little 
‘ happened ’ to Jane Austen, but she did not lack material for her novels. 

More happens m the mind than in material circumstances, and 

a man who has lived always in a country village, a woman who has spent her 
time in cooking and cleaning have as much to write about, as others whose 
lives have been full of outward and visible happenings.^ 

Quite true ; but a cook or a maid servant can only write within 
her narrow limits of vision ; no lively imagination can help 
her picture the household of a duke or the life in China or 
Tahiti. A Jane Austen cannot write the novels of Stevenson, 
Conrad or Maugham. The nature of an author’s writings 
depends considerably on his experiences. 

About his travels Maugham says, “ I have gone into 
the world because I thought it was necessary in order to get 
the experience without which I could not write. ” * His ex- 
periences as a medical student provided h i m with materials 
for Liza of Lambeth ; his experiences in life at Whitsable, 
at Paris and Heidelberg and London were utihzed in Of 
Human Bondage and enabled him to write Mrs. Craddock. 


1 B. H, Ward, W. Somerset Maugham, 
* The Surnming Up, 

4—1245 B.J. 



26 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAFOHAM 

But soon he found that he had exhausted his store ; he could 
not produce anything new ; it would only be in some way 
or other repetitions of what he had already produced ; it 
would be tedious. The War provided him with materials which 
he utilised afterwards when writing the delighful detective 
stories,^ but it was a small fund. The thing that made a 
complete change in his writings was his journey to the South 
Seas. It opened up a new vista. Maugham himself has 
given a clear idea of the strength of the new experience : 

I found a new self. Ever since I left St. Thomas Hospital I had 
lived with people who attached value to culture. I had come to think there 
was nothing in the world more important tlian art. I looked for a meaning 
in the universe and the only meaning I could find was the heauty that men 
here and there produced. On the surlace my life v\a.s varied and exciting ; 
but beneath it was narrow. Now I entered a new world and the iirstinct 

in me of a novelist went out to absorb the novelty What excited 

me was to meet one person after another who wa.s new to me. J was like a 
naturahst w'ho comes into a country where the fauna are of unimaginable 
variety. ^ 

It provided him not only with a vast canvas but with the 
figures to put on it ; it not only provided him with a back- 
ground of unimaginable beauty, it also provided an oppor- 
tunity of seeing the drama of life played against it. Maugham 
had too good an observant eye to miss anything. They all 
came back to him when he was writing in spite of his bad 
memory which he laments in his autobiography. The journey 
to the South Seas was not his last long journey. After his 
recovery from tuberculosis he travelled to China and The 
Painted Veil is the product of his experience gathered there ; 
he found there the original of at least Mother Superior, if not 
of the other characters ; perhaps it was here that he found 
the original of the delightful Dr. Saunders, ^ the first sketch 
of whom we find in On a China Screen. 


^ Ashenden, 

* The Summing Up. 

* The Narrow Corner* 



NITISH KUMAB BASTT 


27 


Very few have drawn from their own lives so much 
material as Somerset Maugham. He has imagination enough 
but his foot is so firmly planted on earth that his imagination 
cannot soar, it can only give colour to materials which Maugham 
has gathered from real life. He may be said to be a realist. 
He not only puts down his experiences on paper with some 
modifications but puts in much of himself, his own doubts 
and misgivings, beliefs and disbeliefs and opinions (which, 
by the way, is only a product of his experience) into his writings. 
Of his plays he remarks, “ Even in my lightest pieces I had 
])ut in so much of myself that I was embarrassed to hear it 
disclosed to a crowd of people.” ^ And what he says of his 
plays is more true of his novels and short stories— 0/ Human 
Bondage, The Fall of Edward Barnard, The Narrow Corner, 
etc., are records of his mind. 

His travels and experiences not only gave him the 
knowledge of men, they also taught him tolerance. After 
many journeys he came to the conclusion that “ the heart 
of men is in the right place, but their head is a thoroughly 
inefficient organ.” ^ They only deserve sympathy and toler- 
ance. The journeys have made him conclude, unlike Chekov, 
that the human race is not by nature cruel and callous. 


^ The Summing Up* 

* IW. 



CHAPTER IV 


A Note on Technique 
I 

Mechanical Devices 

Mechanical devices are essential to a novelist to unfold 
his story and the difference between a good and a bad artist 
lies to a great extent in the art of concealing the obviousness 
of these devices from the reader, -in the power of distracting 
the reader’s attention from this mechanical side of the struc- 
ture with its rough angularities. One of such devices is the 
time-shift of which Maugham has become a master. It is a 
device by which the author goes backwards or forwards and 
thus makes his story complete. This practice is common to 
writers, who relate the story from an omniscient point of view 
as distinguished from the method followed by authors who 
leave the story to be told by each character. Most of the 
modern writers, however, do not follow the old method of 
writing from an omniscient point of view but take some pains 
to make that time-shift natural ; for example, they pursue 
the thoughts of a character in the story and go back to the 
antecedents. It is interesting to note how Maugham has 
used and developed this instrument. 

In his first novels we do not get the use of this device 
in a marked degree. In Explorer we find the first trace 
of this device. ^ But compared with his recent novels it is 
nothing. In Of Human Bondage we find again the straight- 
forward narrative. It is in The Moon and Sixpence that we 
first get this device fairly developed. 


^ When Alec tells LU07 the story of his life. 



NITISH KTTMAB BAStT 


2d 

In The Moon and Sixpence we find these mechanical 
devices becoming progressively faultless. He has used the 
first person singular, which, as we shall see later, suits him ; 
and he has tried the device of time-shift. The narrator begins 
by speaking of Strickland’s fame after his death and then goes 
back naturally to the early days of his acquaintance with 
him. He then proceeds with the story until their final part- 
ing in Paris. Then there is another shift and we come to a 
period, many years after that parting, nearly to the period 
when the story begins. The narrator tells of his visit to Tahiti, 
the direct result of which is the book. At Tahiti he became 
acquainted with the details of Strickland’s life. The time 
is shifted back to the period when Strickland landed there 
and the story is carried forward until his death. The last 
time-shift brings us almost to the present ; it tells us of the 
narrator’s return from Tahiti and his meeting with Strickland’s 
family. 

We find these shifts of time no doubt but they are 
hardly noteworthy. If the first chapter be not taken into 
consideration wc may fail to find ont any time-shift at all. 
And in the first chapter there is very little ingenuity and 
mastery shown in using the time-shift. In The Painted 
Veil, however, we find that he has mastered this device. The 
story begins dramatically at a period when Kitty has already 
been seduced by Townsend. The time is shifted with the 
thoughts in Kitty’s mind to the days when she was not married 
to Walter. We are told of Kitty’s family and how she came 
to marry Walter. Then we are told of their first days in 
Tehing-Yen and how she came to know Townsend. Thus 
gradually we come to the time when the story began and the 
story then moves on without any more time-shift. 

In Theatre we find the highest perfection of this 
device. The story opens with the introduction of Tom 
into Julia’s life. Very naturally she presents him with a 
photograph of hers. When he is gone, she looks at the 



30 - WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

photographs methodically arranged and the memories of 
the dead past come to her quite naturally and we come 
to know of her early life on the stage ; we are introduced to 
Jimmie Langton ; we are told how she is married to Michael 
and of their gradual rise in the theatrical world. We are 
])Osted up-to-date in this way and we are now prepared to 
move on with the real story, Julia’s fascination for Tom and 
her emancipation from that. 

Maugham’s use of the first person singular is nothing 
but a device which suits his tem])erament. In The Moon 
and Sixpence he tries this device first and between this novel 
and Cakes and Ale wh(‘re he last uses it, he has written a num- 
ber of short stories in first ])erson singular. There are obvious 
advantages of this d('vice. The ordinary method used in 
writing a novel bad been that of the omniscient author re- 
vealing facts which sometimes strikes the reader as impossible 
to have been known by the author ; it tends to destroy the 
illusion of the storv, if the writer does not possess a fascinating 
personality which can be felt by the reader, or, in other words, 
the reader feels the intrusion of the writer and sometinu's 
resents it. In writing in the first person singular, Maugham 
has this advantage that the reader never feels the irritation 
which the omniscience of the author sometimes arouses. 
This makes the reader feel very intimate with the narrator ; 
he is quite at home with the workings of the narrator’s mind, 
the feelings and sentiments that flit in and out. The reader 
understands the point of view of Ashenden in Cakes and Ale ; 
it never hurts his sense of logic when Ashenden gives his esti- 
mates of others’ characters or when he is told something which 
he could not know otherwise. It has its disadvatages also ; 
it binds the hands of the author and he cannot take any liberty 
when informing his reader of an important development and 
sometimes (as we shall see when we are dealing with his short 
stories) he has to slip into the role of the omniscient author 
to do that. 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


31 


This difficulty is considerably lessened when the author 
uses a variation of this first person singular, namely, Avriting 
from the angle of vision of a character in the story. The 
difference of this method with the other one just njentioned 
is that in this method the narrator is the author who jjresents 
the angle of vision of one character in the story ; in the other 
method the narrator is a character in the story, In his first 
three or four novels Maugham is the omniscient author ; in 
Mrs. Craddock however we find him trying to adopt this method. 
But the angle of vision there does not remain constant ; it 
shifts from Bertha (fiaddock to Mrs. Ley and back, some- 
times to the other characters too. This shifting of the angle 
of vision no doubt enriches the novel and helps the novelist 
in producing a sense of variety and in depicting fully rounded 
characters. Whether Maugham’s adoi»tion of the method 
of using one angle of vision indicates that he thinks it the 
better method of the two is merely a matter of conjecture. 
We can only note that as he grows mature he gives up this 
method of shifting his angle of vision ; perhaps the singleness 
of the angle of vision is suitable to him because it is easier for 
him to identify himself consistently with one character. Any- 
how, in The Explorer he still shifts his angle of vision and it is 
the same with other novels written before Of Human Bondage. 
In 0/ Human Bondage we find this art finally developed. 
We are made to see everything through the eyes of Philip 
Carey. This is perhaps the best method possible (at least 
as far as such themes as are dealt with in Of Human Botidage 
are concerned) ; it prevents the reader from questioning the 
illusion of authenticity which is the measure of a great novel. 
The value of this method can be judged very clearly from 
Conrad’s Almaytr s Folly, as Ames has pointed out. The 
reader gets a consistent impression as long as the story is told 
from the angle of Almayer ; it seems quite possible to the 
reader that Conrad must have somehow got the story out of 
Almayer; but when the angle is unnecessarily shifted to 



32 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

Almayer’s Malaya wife and other characters the impression 
of continuity is broken ; the illusion of reahty is impaired. 
“ The reader begins to wonder if all these people had told 
Conrad their secrets. That being improbable, he must have 
made up the whole thing and its authenticity is lost.” ^ The 
reader does not become throughly disgusted only because 
of the story interest. 

After Maugham had perfected this method in Of Human 
Bondage he has used it always, except where he has used the 
first person singular itself. In The Painted Veil, the angle 
of vision is that of Kitty, in The Narrow Corner that of Dr. 
Saunders, in Theatre that of Julia. In The Moon and Six- 
pence or Cakes and Ale too we get one particular angle of 
vision, only that happens to be that of the narrator himself, 
the extreme case of such particularised angle of vision. 

In this method the author gets all the advantages of 
using the fiist person singular getting rid of its disadvantages. 
VV’^hen in Th^, Nanow Corner we are told of the happening in 
the garden (the courting of Louise by Fred Blake), or when 
we are told of the doings of Erik ('hristessen after he foupd 
out Louise compromised with Fred Blake (which could not 
have been known b^ Di. Saunders, whose angle of vision is 
being presented to usi, this fault of the author does not seem 
to us as grievous as it would have been if it was written in 
the first person singular ; these faults are covered up by the 
charm of the narrative. 

These are the devices on which Maugham’s novels 
stand ; but these are so concealed, so fitted in with the plot, 
that they never strike the reader as only technical devices ; 
they never give the impression of being mechanical. This 
is undoubtedly a sign of the writer’s genius. “ The technical 
devices,” Maugham remarks at one place, “ that an author 
uses to capture your interest are his own affair. Such a one 
as the ‘ stream of thought ’ is an amusing trick, but it is of 


^ Ames, Aesthetic of the Novel. 



NTTISH KXTMAR BASU 


33 


no more real importance than the epistolary style which was 
in vogue during the eighteenth century.” ^ Those tricks are 
the author’s “ own affair ” no doubt but there is one connec- 
tion which they have with the reader, it is that they must 
never be taken as obvious tricks by a reader. Maugham’s 
mastery lies in his success in concealing the tricks. 


II 

The Hand of the Dramatist 

How to begin a story has always been a serious 
problem with novelists. The English novelists of older times 
generally began from the beginning and plodded on to the 
end ; this even the modern novelists do sometimes but with 
a difference —they try to make the beginning dramatic. The 
essential factor in a novel is its story interest ; the character- 
sketching reveals the genius of the novelist no doubt — a novel 
withoxit good sketches is a bad novel, — but (despite contem- 
porary novelists like Virginia Woolf) a novel without a story 
interest, though a novelty, is no novel at all. A good novel 
must be able to get a firm hold on the reader to demand all 
his attention from the start to the finish and the beginning 
is a factor in creating this interest in the reader. The reader 
must be made at once interested in the story ; in this busy 
world a dull beginning will not do. It is very difficult to find 
the reader who will read through a dozen pages of dry de- 
scriptions, of place, of characters and of time, to come to the 
real story interest. What is needed is a dramatic opening 
like that of, say, the Pit and the Pendulum of Edgar 
Allan Poe : 

I was .sick— si ok unto death with that long agony and when they 
at last unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses wer$ 


' I’refaop, Cosmopolitans, 


6—1245 B.J. 



34 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


kftving me. The sentenoe — ^the dread sentence of death — ^wae the last dis- 
tinct accentuation that reached my ears. 

It makes the reader sit up and take notice ; he plunges into 
the story at once. Maugham knows this art. The sense of 
drama is like a sixth sense in him and the profession of a 
dramatist has developed it fully. 

Here is a typical beginning : 

She gave a startled cry. 

“ What’s the matter ?” he asked. 

Notwithstanding the darkness of the shuttered room he saw her face 
on a sudden distraught with terror. ‘ 

We do not however get such dramatic beginnings in 
the first two or three of his novels. His first novel begins 
with the description of Vere Street, Lambeth, on the first 
Saturday afternoon in August. It is a straightforward 
description of the old type. But it did not take him long to 
develop the art of dramatic beginning — he has cultivated it 
almost religiously. He does not of course always begin as 
dramatically as in The Painted Veil, yet he begins always 
from a dramatic moment from which the story goes on effort- 
lessly. 

There cannot be any doubt that this art is to a great 
extent an effect of his training as a dramatist. The profession 
of a dramatist has had another influence on his novels and 
it is of far greater importance than the art of dramatic begin- 
ning. The profession of a dramatist has taught him law and 
order. “ My prepossessions in art,” he says, “ are on the 
side of law and order. I hke a story that fits. I did not take 
to writing stories seriously till I had had much experience 
as a dramatist and this experience taught me to leave out 
everything that did not serve the dramatic value of my story. 
It taught me to make incident follow incident in such a manner 


‘ The Painted Veil, 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


35 


As to lead up to the climax I had in mind.” ^ An examination 
of Liza of Lambeth, which was written before he had tried 
his hand at drama, gives a clear idea as to how much his 
training as a dramatist has done. 

At the time of writing his first novel Maugham’s assets 
were his keen power of observation and a natural aptitude 
for writing dialogues, and in that novel we find ample proof 
of these powers. Whenever he finds an opportunity he uses 
them and he uses them without discrimination, without re- 
straint. He does not yet know the value of condensation ; 
he cannot yet select. He uses descriptions which have httle 
to do with the main trend of the story. The opening picture, 
we admit, is required, for without creating the atmosphere 
of frolic and mirth he could not create the condition in which 
Liza meets Jim ; it creates an opportunity for Jim to show 
his effrontery in kissing Liza, and that boldness attracts 
Liza, and the story moves on. But this cannot be said 
of the feasting scenes. No doubt the scene is not altogether 
useless ; it shows how Liza is getting fascinated by Jim and 
repulsed by Tom’s address. But Maugham rambles too 
much ; he cannot restrain himself from showing his power 
of observation and mastery of dialogue, to show which he 
takes too much space. It would not have been like this if it 
had been one of his matured novels. 

This prolixity disappears as a result of his experience 
as a dramatist. A dramatist has no time to ramble, he has 
got to pick up the essentials and fit them together to get an 
even flow to the end. In writing a novel Maugham was not 
bound by any such compulsory restriction; but once used 
to such restriction in writing his plays he does not give it up, 
and this habit, we must say, has done him much good as a 
novelist. Such well-knit stories may not resemble life in 
which stories straggle but nevertheless they are good stories. 


1 Preface, Altog^h€r. 



36 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


“ The story-teller arranges life to suit his purposes. He 
follows a design in mind, leaving out this and changing that ; 
he distorts facts to his advantage, according to his plan ; and 
when he attains his object produces a work of art.” ^ 

The novels written after he had become an experienced 
dramatist show an immense improvement in his art com- 
pared with his first few novels. The novels ^ written in the 
first decade of this century show many immaturities but they 
also show that Maugham has already learnt the art of selec- 
tion. He has learnt restraint ; he does not put in unneeessary 
episodes. 

This frugaUty becomes so ingrained in him that even 
in Of Human Bondage, where it is quite expected that he 
would ramble when dealing with the life of Philip, he manages 
to produce a well-knit work of art ; if he had rambled it would 
have been quite in accordance with the English tradition. 
In similar books, say, Thackeray’s Newcom.es, we find this 
rambling ; in attempting to give a picture of society Thackeray 
has given us episodes which do not, in any way, help to mould 
the character of the hero or to develop the plot. Speaking 
about this characteristic of English novels Maugham remarks : 

Our great novels are shapeless and unwieldy. ® It has pleased the 
English to like this laxity of construction, this haphazard conduct of a ram- 
bling story, this wandering in and out of curious characters who have nothing 

much to do with the theme The sermons that Henry James breathe 

to the English on form in the novel aroused their interest but little affected 
their practice. * 

1 Preface, Altogether, 

* Even in Mrs. Craddock (1902) there are some scenes which should have been 
left out, as the constantly repeated scenes where Bertha scolds her husband for coldness. 
These scenes are so similar that they cannot but bore the reader. In Theatre where there 
is a set of similar circumstances, Maugham takes care to avoid such repetitions. But 
it must be noted that these repetitions in Mrs. Craddock are not exactly irrelevanoies ; 
they show how Bertha is becoming a shrew ; they become tedious because Maugham can* 
not conceal their similarities. 

* “ H. G. Wells declared in a lecture once that the novel was a kind of lucky 
bag in which anything and everything was to bo found.” (Walpole, linglish Novel.) 

* The (damming Up. 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


37 


Maugham’s great novel Of Human Bondage is anything but 
shapeless and unwieldy Maugham gives us a hint about 
the central theme of the novel in the book itself ; 

Philip was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold 
chaos of life. 

And every incident related goes to make up that pattern. 
We are given only a selection of the experiences which have 
gone to mould Philip, which have helped to develop his 
character ; we have only been given the “ pattern ” of his 
life, we need not know “ the manifold chaos ” of it. 

We are told of Philip’s early childhood, of his romantic 
imagination, and the gradual disillusionment which comes 
as a result of his increasing contact with the realities of life ; 
we are told how his faith in a benevolent and omnipotent 
God is shaken ; for some time Perkins, the headmaster, comes 
between Philip and his tendency of becoming an atheist. The 
episodes of his school life, mostly cruel, help to mould his 
character ; he becomes more and more shy, reserved and 
bitter. His life in Paris, Heidelberg and London makes him 
completely disillusioned about life. There is a panoramic 
procession of characters like Hayward, Miss Wilkinson, Week, 
Cacilie, Mildred and many others who come into Philip’s 
life and pass away, but they all leave him maturer, they all 
leave their mark on him ; it is not a case of “ wandering in 
and out of curious characters who have nothing much to do 
with the theme. ” 

The same can be said of the novels that follow Of Human 
Bondage. The incidents in The Painted Veil help to build 
up Kitty’s character, its first stage and the transformation. 
In the Cakes and Ale the incidents do not help to mould any 
character but they reveal Rosie Driffield and others from 
all sides ; there is almost no incident which does not throw 
a new light on one side or the other of the characters. In 
The NaTTOw CorneT incidents lead to incidents producing the 



38 , WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

final catastrophe. The Theatre is made up of incidents leading 
to and shoMdng Julia’s fascination for Tom and incidents leading 
to her disillusionment. The preliminary chapters dealing 
with Julia’s early life are not in the least irrelevant to the 
main plot. We are told in those chapters how Julia’s charac- 
ter was moulded, how she fell in love with Michael and how 
she got over it. Without the help of these chapters it would 
not have been possible to know the state of mind she was in. 
She had been out of love for a long time and that explains 
why she is so eager to fall in love with Tom. 

“ Everything that has no relation to the story must 
be ruthlessly thrown away,” Chekov says in his advice to 
Schoukin. “ If in the first chapter you say that a gun hung 
on the wall, in the second or third chapter it must without 
fail be discharged.” ^ We shall see later that Chekov him- 
self does not follow this advice sometimes ; but Maugham, 
after he attained maturity, has seldom deviated from this 
principle laid down so clearly by Chekov. Even the dyspepsia 
of Captain Nichols in The Narrow Corner has a cause for its 
existence ; without its existence Dr. Saunders cannot get 
a passage on board the ship, and if Dr. Saunders be not on 
board, the ship need not go to Kanda-Meira to drop Dr. 
Saunders there, and naturally in that case the tragedy cannot 
happen ; Captain Nichols’s dyspepsia therefore is an essential 
factor. It is not there to raise a laugh as Mrs. Kemp’s rheu- 
matism in Liza of Lambeth does. 

But as Maugham has pointed out, even Chekov did 
not always foUow his own dictum. In The Bishop, “ the 
Bishop eats some tainted fish and a few days later dies of 
typhoid ; we may suppose that it was the tainted fish that 
killed him. If that is so he did not die of typhoid, but of 
Ptomaine poisoning, and the symptoms were not as described.” ® 
In fact Chekov has no necessity of making the Bishop eat the 


^ Quoted ill the Preface to Altogether, 
* Preface, Altogether, 



NITISH KTTMAB BASTT 39 

tainted fish. In Maugham’s case too, there are one or two 
such slips. One of them occurs in Cakes and Ale. Maugham 
goes on there to describe how the career of Jasper Gibbon 
was made by Mrs. Burton ; it takes him four or five pages 
to do that and the only point in doing that is to illustrate 
Mrs. Barton’s power of ‘ making ’ careers. In fact he so 
abandons himself to his free and homely style that he forgets 
his habitual restraint. Still there is some excuse for it, though 
it is rather a flimsy one, and what is more creditable to 
Maugham, this sort of rambling is a very rare thing for him. 

In two ways therefore we find Maugham’s profession 
of a dramatist has influenced his novels. It has taught him 
how and when to begin a story. It has decided the form of 
his novels, ranging him by the side of Chekov, Henry James, 
Maupassant, vStephan Zweig and others who advocate plots 
without digressions. 


Ill 

The Best Form 

In his characteristically high-handed manner Mr. R. H. 
Ward tells us that “ a work of art should, as it were, return 
in the end to the place where it began, and should be balanced' 
not only in the aspects of its timing, but in all its aspects, as 
a circle is balanced ” ^ ; and judging according to this dictum 
he thinks that this is the reason that makes Huxley’s novel. 
Eyeless in Gaza, “ so satisfying a novel. ” There cannot 
be a shallower judgment. “ There is not a critic alive now,” 
says Virginia Woolf, in an article in Nation, “ who will say 
that a novel is a work of art and that as such he will judge 
it ” ; apparently she had no opportunity of taking Mr. R. H. 
.Ward into consideration. 


1 B. H, Ward, TT, Somtraet Maxigham, 



40 


WILLIAM SOMEESET MAUGHAM 


Maugham has not produced any novel which can 
satisfy Mr. Ward’s craving for “ the symbol for a circle ” ; 
“ he fails to make a pattern, in his timing as in his construc- 
tion,” Mr. Ward points out.^ Apparently Mr. Ward has 
forgotten for the moment that the essential factor in a novel 
is not its mechanical form, it is the sense of life that it imparts 
that makes the value of a novel. “ We know of novels,” 
Lubbock points out, “ which everybody admits to be badly 
constructed, but which is so full of life that it does not seem 
to matter. May we not conclude that form, design, com- 
position, have a rather different bearing upon the art of fic- 
tion than any they may have elsewhere ?” ® Lubbock has 
come to the conclusion that “ the best form is that which 
makes the most of the subject — there is no other definition 
of the meaning of form.” This is an astute judgment. It 
gives stress to the fact that in fiction form follows matter ; 
there is one form that suits one kind of subject, there is another 
to suit a different one. The greatest thing is to sustain the 
interest and to do that a harmony between form and matter 
is necessary. 

Maugham’s novels may not satisfy Mr. Ward’s craving 
for form, but they satisfy the readers. They seldom 
have fiuctuating story interest ; Maugham has the power, 
as all the great writers of fiction have to take the reader with 
him. This he can do because he choses a form “ which makes 
the most of the subject.” We are of course leaving out the 
immature novels for obvious reasons. His mature novels. 
Of Human Bondage, The Painted. Veil, Cakes and Ale, The 
Narrow Corner, Theatre, show varying forms adopted to do 
proper justice to the matter. 

Of Human Bondage is a novel in which the author has 
not used the device of time-shift ; it is a straightforward 
narrative which makes Mr. Ward take it for an “ uninspired ” 

^ K. H. Ward, W. Somerset Maugham, 

The Craft of Ficliort, 



NITISH KXTMAE BASU 


41 


novel. It begins from the childhood of Philip Carey, moves 
on with Philip growing into manhood and ends with his marriage 
with Sally. In spite of its being “ uninspired ” it is the most 
moving of Maugham’s novels. The reason is not far to seek > 
it is the fact that for a subject of this type a straightforward 
narrative is most appealing. The author tells us about the 
growth and development of Philip’s mind, how the incidents 
of his life gradually moulds him. If he had used time-shift, 
supposing he was master of it, then, he would have had to 
make Philip remember his early life, sitting comfortably in 
a room neatly arranged by his industrious wife, Sally. He 
could not have used the ever-changing time-shifts which 
Huxley has used in Eyeless in Gaza ; it would have broken 
the continuity and marred the interest ; it could not have 
given the impression of Philip gradually growing up under 
the hard buffets of life. If he had used ever-changing time- 
shifts, it would have been something like the method used in 
the first portion of Theatre where we are informed of Julia’s 
early life. It would have been an absolutely unnecessary 
artifice and the obviousness of the artifice would have been 
its greatest defect. In The Painted Veil Maugham s main 
theme is the transformation of Kitty’s soul. Naturally it was 
unnecessary to begin from the beginning ; he begins at a 
time when Kitty has already been seduced, when she has 
come to the lowest rung of her frivolous, unthinking and 
selfish self. Put we must know her early life which would 
explain the events that have occurred, which would explain 
the nature that has been formed in her in an unthinking and 
shallow society. For that the time-shift has been very effec- 
tive ; we do not lo.se sight of the main theme, and at the 
same time we know of the necessary past. A plain narrative 
has a charm which the complicated, ingenious pattern of time- 
shift of, say, Mr. Ford Madox-Ford, fails to produce. The 
straightforward narrative portion of The Painted Veil makes 
us feel with the characters, just as in the case of Of Human 


6— 1246BJ. 



42 


WnXIAM SOMSBSXT MAUGHAM 


Bondage ; the time-shift is a device that helps effectively to 
tell US of those portions which do not fall in the period that 
is included in the main theme. 

Cakes and Ale comes nearest to Mr. Ward’s idea of 
“ the symbol of a circle. It begins at a time when Edward 
Driffield, the novelist, is already dead and Alroy Kear has 
taken up the task of writing his biography. He delicately 
approaches the narrator, asking him to supply materials for 
writing Edward Driffield’s early life. The first talk with 
Kear about Driffield’s early life, when the narrator is not 
directly asked to supply materials, makes him ruminate over 
the time when he had first heard of Edward’s name at his 
uncle’s table ; it was not then a name much honoured there. 
Then the time is shifted to the ‘ present ’ and we are told 
how the narrator is invited by Mrs. Driffield to stay with her 
for a few days. His mind flies back to the lunch he had with 
her when Edward was alive. Edward told the company 
that he had taught narrator to bicycle. The time is then 
naturally shifted forty years back when he learned to bicycle 
We then know of Edward’s life at Blackstable, up to the time 
of his hurried exit from that place. There is another time- 
shift and we are told of the conversation of the narrator with 
Alroy Kear when he is made to promise to help him in writing 
Edward’s biography. The next time-shift takes us back to 
the narrator s first years in London where he met the Driffields 
for the first time after their departure from Blackstable. We 
are told of Rosie’s sweetness and unfaithfulness to her hus- 
band ; we are told how Driffield’s career was * made ’ by 
Mrs. Barton ; we come to know how Rosie eloped with George 
Kemp. After that the narrator gradually had lost touch with 
him. We are then led to the ‘ present ’ again, to the week- 
end the narrator is spending at Mrs. Driffield’s. It does not 
end there ; the time is again shifted slightly back and we 
come to know how he had met Rosie in America some time 
back. 



NITISH KtJMAB BASH 


43 


It is a complicated pattern and it is satisfying to Mr. 

Ward as well as to other readers. It is not difficult to find 

out how that could happen. The fact is that the subject- 
matter just suits the pattern Maugham has adopted and it 
is the pattern that Mr. Ward happens to admire. The main 
theme is the ironical contrast in the attitudes of people to- 
wards Edward Driffield before and after his fame ; it is also 
the author’s intention to depict Rosie in a pecuUar light, to 
prove her sweetness against the judgment of the posterity 
(that is, the admirers of Driffield), and to set up a contrast 
such varying shifts from the ‘ present ’ to the ‘ past ’ and 

back are very eifective. Had the intention been to picture 

the hfe of Rosie Driffield, only a straightforward tale like 
that in Of Human Bondage would have been the best form to 
adopt ; but it is a sort of contrast that is aimed at and for 
that purpose the form he has chosen is the best. 

Maugham knows just how much the device of time- 
shift he can use and where. In The Narrow Corner he used 
very httle of that time-shift. Mr. Ward’s criticism of that 
novel is rather amusing : 

“ The Narrow Corner ” is not satisfying. Once more the time-shift 
is used, again clumsily and without plan, yet still with the effect that is in- 
trinsic in it as a literary trick. Once more the construction, apart &om the 
use of the time-shift, is faulty. And a new fault makes its first really distinc- 
tive appearance in this novel, that of digression.^ 

He complains that stories have been introduced which have 
nothing to do with the main story, that they “ hold up the 
action of the main story and produce in the reader a sense 
of annoyance.” Apparently the novel acts differently on 
the minds of different readers ; it aimoys Mr. Ward. He goes 
on to say, however, that “ curiously enough, this lack of con- 
tinuity and uncertainty of development do not disturb the 
same evenness of tone that this book shares with Cakes and 
Ale. It is curious indeed that Mr. Ward does not ask hima etf 

^ K. H. Wi^rd, W» S<ym%rMt Maugham* 



44 


WILLIAM SOMBESET MAUGHAM 


why tJiat evenness is not disturbed by the digressions. If 
he had, he would have known that those disgressions are not 
really irrelevant, they are essential for the story and Maugham 
has taken the help of time-shift to tell us those stories which 
we need know to understand the main story. 

It is not difficult to guess why the story begins with 
the appearance of Dr. Saunders in Takana. It gives the 
idea of an inexorable and unavoidable fate. If Saunders 
had not been in Takana he could not have met Blake and 
Nichols and in that case they would not have had any occasion 
to go to Kaiida-Meira where the tragedy occurs, which appa- 
rently is the main theme. It may be argued that the first 
portion might have been told with the help of time-shift, the 
story beginning with the landing of Fred Blake in Kanda- 
Meira. But in that case the impression would have been 
different. The workings of Fate could not have been so 
plainly shown and, moreover, the tolerant and philosophic 
attitude of Dr. Saunders with which the reader is made to 
look at the events happening later on, could not have been 
properly emphasised. It might have been rather clumsy 
and the evenness of tone might have been broken. It was 
not at all necessary to try a complicated pattern when the 
simple narrative with minimum time-shift is so effective. 

There are three so-called digressions in the story. Cap- 
tain Nichols’s relation with his wife, the relation between 
Christessen and Mrs. Frith, and Fred Blake’s antecedents. 
The necessity of the last is obvious ; the antecedents of Fred 
Blake explain his presence in Takana where he meets Saunders. 
Captain Nichols’s relation with his wife amuses the reader ; 
also, it makes the character of Nichols three-dimensional. 
Moveover, one must not lose sight of the fact that when Cap- 
tain Nichols speaks of his wife, he also tells us of his life, how 
he always has to live from hand to mouth, which explains how 
he came to take the rather shady commission ; that portion, 
too, fits in with the main story ; it helps to give a sense of 



NITISH KITMAE BAStf 


46 


completeness. The other digression is rather difficult to 
explain. After the suicide of Erik, Luise says to Dr. Saunders, 
“ what he loved in me was my mother, and he never knew that 
either ” ; later on she says, “ Erik killed himself because I 
had fallen short of the ideal he had made of me.” That ideal 
was Mrs. Frith and it was necessary not to leave that figure 
a mere shadow. 

Maugham shows his mastery in inserting these essen- 
tial stories with a perfect naturalness. Nichols, feeling very 
well with the help of Dr. Saunders’s medicine, becomes com- 
municative and tells how he was engaged to sail the schooner. 
What is more natural than Dr. Saunders asking Erik about 
Mrs. Frith after he returns from Frith’s house ? We are never 
allowed to peep into Fred’s past until it comes out in a most 
natural manner ; when Fred is excited and disgusted with 
himself after Erik’s suicide, he tells Saunders about that 
himself. Maugham is such a master of his medium that 
these stories never hold up the main story interest. The 
reader never has a suspicion that it is a mere literary trick 
that Maugham takes the help of. 

We eannot but conclude that the form of The Narrow 
Corner suits the purpose of the author and that the construc- 
tion of the novel is not so faulty as Mi’. Ward imagines. In 
Maugham’s recent novel. Theatre, too we find the same mastery 
of technique. The main theme is Julia’s love-affair with Tom 
and it begins where it germinates ; the time-shift is used to 
tell us of the past but we get a plain narrative where we are 
asked to feel with the characters. 

It will be ridiculous to suppose that even slight changes 
in the patterns Maugham has adopted for his themes, would 
have marred the story interest. The fact is that the forms 
adopted suit the themes. It is a proved fact that a reader 
is more at home in a plain narrative. If the author wants to 
make a reader identify himself with his characters, the best 
way is the old way. Maugham knows that ; that is why 



46 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


the main themes are always dealt with plainly, as in Of 
Human Bondage, but the antecedent stories are told with the 
help of time-shift. That is how Maugham makes the best of 
his subject. 


IV 

Concerning Short Stories 

About his taking to writing short stories considerably 
late in his career Maugham says: 

“ Though in early youth I had written a number of short stories, 
for a long time, twelve or fifteen years at least, occupied with the drama, I 
had ceased to do so, and when a journey to the South Seas unexpectedly 
provided me with theme that seemed to suit this medium, it was as a beginner 
of over forty that I wrote the story that is now called Bain. ” ^ 

When he began to write the short stories he was a master 
story-teller and in the case of short stories therefore we have 
not to look for a development ; we find him in Rain a 
master of his medium. 

“ As a writer of fiction I go back through innumerable 
generations, to the teller of tales round the fire in the cavern 
that sheltered neolithic men,” Maugham remarks in his auto- 
biography and as most of his judgments about himself are, 
he has hit upon the right note. His genius lies in telling 
stories like Maupassant and the best way to do that is in the 
way of simple and touching tales. He has a genius in in- 
venting plots and his art lies in the seeming artlessness of 
telling those stories. “ I wanted to write stories,” he tells 
us, “ that proceeded, tightly knit, in an unbroken line from 
the exposition to the conclusion. I saw the short story as a 
narrative of simple event, material or spiritual, to which, by 
the elimination of everything that was not essential to its 


^ J’refac.e, Altog^h&r* 



NITISH KTTMMl BASIT 


47 


elucidation, a dramatic unity could be given. I preferred to 
end my stories with a full-stop rather than with a struggle 
of dots.” ^ Maugham is inclined to simple tales told without 
digressions. 

One has only to look at his short stories to get proofs 
of it. Rain, for example, is a simple tale about a mihtant 
clergyman who at last succumbs to the sin against which he 
has been fighting the whole of his life. * Mayhew is simpler 
still ; it tells of a successful man who bought a house at Capri 
and settled there for the rest of his life, buried among books ; 
it tells with a beautiful simplicity the story of a man who 
managed to make a simple and beautiful pattern in life. ® It 
is no use multiplying examples ; everyone of his stories is like 
that. That does not of course mean that he never uses the 
device of time-shift, that he always tells his story following 
the sequence of time. In that case he would have been re- 
garded as a monotonous writer. He uses time-shift, but sparing- 
ly, just enough to serve his purpose ; the conclusion arrived 
at In the case of his novels as regards his method of using time* 
shift applies with equal strength here too. The main theme is 
told as a simple tale. There are one or two stories that make 
us pause and hesitate, as, say. Before the Party. Mr. Ward 
considers Before the Party as Maugham’s best story as it follows 
his idea about what a story should be, namely, “ the symbol 
of a circle.” The story tells how Milhcent is pressed by her 
parents and sister to tell them how really her husband died. 
They were told before that it was a natural death. But her 
sister has heard recently from some of her friends that he 
had committed suicide. Millicent drops a bomb-shell ; she 
has murdered her husband. Her father, who had pressed 
her before to tell them the facts of her husband’s death and 
accused her for not telling the truth, now turns on her and 


‘ The Summing Up. 

* The Trembling of a Leaf. 
» Ooemopolikm. 



48 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


says, “ I ought never to have been told. I think it was most 
selfish of you.” At first it seems that the main theme is the 
story that Millicent tells but the author’s aim is to lay stress 
on the attitude of her family, like that in Cakes and Ale. In 
Before the Party the reaction on the minds of the hearers of 
Millicent’s story is the main theme. 

In his short stories we find him making a merit of one 
of his limitations. He knows that he cannot write entirely 
objectively ; he puts much of himself in his writings. This 
practice is developed in his short stories where the technique 
he adopts is mostly the use of the first person singular. In 
some cases he does not use the first person singular directly 
but substitutes a name for “ I ”. He has done that in Rain, 
for example, where, in the original sketch of the story, we 
find that he had intended to write in the first person singiilar. 
The short stories in the books First Person Singular and 
Cosmopolitans are all written in the first person singular ; the 
rest of the short stories have been written in a method which 
is only a variation of that. In the case of his novels we have 
seen the gradual development of this device ; in the case of 
his short stories we find the use of the completely developed 
device. It must be mentioned that in one or two of the stories 
he has not been able to keep the air of verisimilitude ; we 
wonder, for example, how he could obtain the particulars of 
the scene between Mr. and Mrs. Albert Forrester and Mrs. 
Bulfinch in The Creative Impulse. ’ In other cases we can 
well believe that he got it somehow from some source or other, 
btit in this case that would not do. Mrs. Albert Forrester 
at the end of the story intentionally conceals the facts of 
that interview and the narrator who could only know from 
that source naturally could not know the facts. Anyhow it 
is a rare slip ; generally speaking Maugham has made a very 
successful use of this device. 


^ Firtt Person Singular, 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


49 


111 his short stories just as in his novels we find the 
impress of his training as a dramatist. The stories begin 
at dramatic moments ; incidents which develop the story 
are joined and stories are told without digressions in a concise 
manner. From the very beginning they demand the reader’s 
attention and their greatest merit is that the interest never 
flags ; that is what makes him one of the best story-tellers 
of England. He has followed a method, for which his training 
as a dramatist was a great asset, which has been followed 
by all the great story-tellers of the world. He imparts a sense 
of completeness, a perfect pattern which has always appealed 
to the reading public. Maugham’s aim coincides with that 
of the great masters of short story, except perhaps Chekov ; 
it coincides, for example, with that of Stephan Zweig. “ Con- 
ciseness,” remarks Zweig, “ has always seemed to me to be 
the most essential problem in art. To fit his destiny to a man 
so nicely as to leave no vacuum, to inclose him as irradiantly 
as amber does the fly and yet the while to preserve every 
detail of his being, has, of all tasks, ever been the dearest to 
me.” ^ Maugham has been very successful in attaining what 
Zweig reveals to be his aim. 


V 

The, Source 

One peculiar thing about Maugham is that the source 
of his plots is his characters and his characters he gets from 
real life. There is nothing strange in modelling one’s charac- 
ters on real personages ; every writer does that. But the specia- 
lity of Maugham lies in the fact that the sketches he makes 
of the characters suggest the plots to him into which they 
can be fitted. This specially applies to his short stories. 


7— 1246B.J. 


' Foreiirord, KaUidoacop^^ 



60 * 


WILLIAM SOMBESBT MAUGHAM 


We could never have guessed his method of writing 
stories if he had not told us himself. He tells us how he came 
to write the story Rain, in the preface to Altogether : 

I was travelling from Honolulu to Pago-Pago and hoping they might 
at some time be of service, I jotted down, as usual, my impressions of such 
of my follow passengers as attracted my attention. This is what I said of 
Miss Thompson : ‘ Plump, pretty in a coarse fashion, perhaps not more 

than twenty-seven. She wore a white dress and a large white hat, long white 
boots from which the calves bulged in cotton stockings.’ There had been a 
raid on the Red Light District in Honolnlu just before we sailed, and the 
gossip of the ship spread the report that she was making the journey to escape 
arrest. My notes go on : ‘ W. The missionary. He was a tall thin man, 

long limbs loosely jointed, ho had hollow checks and high cheek bones 

He had cadaverous air and a look of suppressed fire.’ 

Maugham’s notes on the wife of the missionary tells us of 
her extreme alertness. She told Maugham that W. was a 
missionary and that he never quailed to go long distances 
on even rough seas in a canoe to do a duty. “ She spoke 
of the depravity of the natives in a voice which nothing could 
hush, but with a vehement, unctuous horror, telling me of 
their marriage customs which were obscene beyond descrip- 
tion. She said, when they first went it was impossible to 
find a single good girl in any of the villages. She inveighed 
against dancing.” Maugham tells us that he talked with 
the missionary and his wife but once, and with Miss Thompson 
not at aU. But the opinions he formed about those people 
suggested to him a fine plot. Here is his note for the story ; 

A prostitute, flying from Honolulu after a raid, lands at Pago-Pago. 
There lands aLso a missionary and his wife. Also the narrator. All are 
obliged to stay there owing to an outbreak of measles. The missionary 
finding out her profession persecutes her. He reduces her to misery, shame 
and repentance ; he has no mercy on her. He induces the governor to order 
her return to Honolulu. One morning he is found with his throat cut by 
his own hand ; she is once more radiant and self-possessed. She looks at 
men and scornfully exclaims, “ Dirty pigs.” 

The look of suppressed fire in the missionary, together with 
the stories told by his wife about his militant attitude toward? 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


61 


sin, suggested to Maugham the missionary’s part in the story. 
Maugham did not like his attitude and his knowledge of the 
psychology, as taught by the modern school, told him that 
the missionary’s militant attitude against sin may be due to 
a subconscious leaning towards it which may get the better 
of the conscious self at any moment ; his fertile imagination 
did the rest. 

“ If you are a story-teller,” he remarks elsewhere, 

“ any curious person you meet has a way of suggesting a 
story, and incidents that to others will seem quite haphazard 
have a way of presenting themselves to you with the pattern 
your natural instinct has imposed on them.” In Rain we 
find a typical illustration of that. Maugham’s habit have 
always been to use his keen power of observation and jot down 
the characteristic of his fellow creatures that their look suggests 
to him and the incidents that suit such characters come natural- 
ly. The sketches contained in his book On a Chinese Screen 
are all fit to be developed into stories. Maugham remarks 
in the preface to that book, “ This is not a book at all, but 
the material for a book.” But what it contains is not material 
for one book but many books. The Rolling Stone, The Cabinet 
Minister, The Servants of God, Fear, etc., are all undeveloped 
or nearly developed stories. There is very little chance of 
these stories being developed but at least two of these sketches 
have provided Maugham with the foundations of his great 
novels. The Fainted Veil and The Narrow Corner. We get 
a sketch of the original of the Mother Superior of The Painted 
Veil here : 

It was the Mother Superior who received me, a placid sweet-faced 
lady with, a soft voice and an accent which told mo that she came from the 
south of France. She showed me the orphans who were in her charge, busy 
at the lace-making which the nuns had taught them, smiling shyly; and 
she showed me the hospital where lay soldiers suffering from dysentery, 
typhoid, and malaria ^ 


1 'Phe Nun. 



52 WILLIAM SOMBBSET MAUWHAM 

With pride they showed me their poor little chapel with its tawdry 
statue of the Blessed Virgin ; its paper flowers, and its gaudy shoddy decora- 
tion ; for those faithful hearts, alas ! were possessed of singularly bad taste. ^ 

We get here the rough sketch of the nuns with their great 
heart, simplicity and ignorance, which was developed in The 
Painted Veil. The convent with the hospital where the sol- 
diers are treated becomes the seat of a human drama for a 
time and occupies a large portion of the book, Maugham 
added Kitty, Walter, Townsend and a few other minor charac- 
ters to it and connecting them built a plot. From the ex- 
perience we have already had about Maugham’s method we 
may safely guess that even those characters he took from life. 

The same thing happens in the case of The Narrow 
Corner. The book depends a great deal on the character of 
Dr. Saunders, if not entirely, and the first sketch of him we 
get in On a Chinese Screen. The description runs thus : 

Dr. Saunders was a little greyhaired man, with a high colour and 
a snub nose which gave him a strangely impudent expression. He had a 
large sensual mouth and when he laughed, which he did very often, he showed 
decayed and discoloured teeth ; when he laughed his little blue eyes wrinkled 

in a curious fashion and then he looked the very picture of malice He 

was not on the register But it was evident that he was a very clever 

doctor and the Chinese had great faith in him. * 

This is the basis on which Maugham built up that 
unique character which suggested to him the incidents. The 
doctor’s sense of humour with the tang of mischievousness 
impressed the author. In the sketch itself we get a taste 
of Saunders’s puckish humour and in The Narrow Corner 
this has been developed to its fullest possibilities. 

This is Maugham’s method of writing. In the last two 
cases, naturally, we cannot know how exactly Maugham 
connected different characters with the incidents as we have 
not been given the sketches of all the characters, which, the 


^ Tht iSighU of ih* Town. 
* T/i# Sirangor^ 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


5^ 


facts about Rain suggest, may be found in his notebook. But 
that this is the method is clearly revealed by the author in 
the case of Rain ; and these hints about the source of charac- 
ters and plots in The Painted Veil and The Narrow Corner, 
which we get in the sketches in On a Chinese Screen, are 
additional confirmations if they are not proofs by themselves. 



CHAPTER V 


The Wokld of Somerset Maugham 
1 

Preliminary— the Ideas and Opinions which Help to Mould 
the People of Maugham's World 

A writer generally secs his characters from a parti- 
cular angle of vision. His characters often bear the impress 
of his temperament and opinions. “ I have seen the world 
through my own idiosyncrasies, ” Maugham admits in The 
Summing Up. It will make it easier to understand Maugham’s 
world if we first make an estimate of his idiosyncrasies. 

We are not here to judge whether his ideas and opinions 
are right or not ; we are concerned with them in so far as they 
have affected his work. One of such ideas is that “ There, is 
not much to choose between men. They are all a hotchpotch 
of greatness and littleness, of virtue and of vice, of nobility 
and baseness.” ^ He has found that out as a result of 
experience. Trying to probe into a character he has often 
brought out its fundamental baseness and this has made 
people call him a cynic. His defence against that attack is 
a clear indication of his attitude towards his characters: 

I have been called cynical. I have been accused of making men 
out worse than they are. I do not think I have done this. All I have done 
is t© bring into prominence certain traits that any writers shut their eyes 
to. I think what has chiefly struck me in human beings is their lack of con- 
sistency. I have never seen people all of a piece. It has amazed me that 
the most incongruous traits should exist in the same person and for all that 
yield a plausible harmony. I have often asked myself how characteristics, 


^ Ths Summing Up, 



NITISH KUMAB BASU 


55 


seemingly irreconcilable, can exist in the same person, I have known crooks 
who were capable of self-sacrifice, sneak-thieves who were sweet-natured 
and harlots for whom it was a point of honour to give good value for money. 

The censure that has from time to time been passed on me is due 

perhaps to the fact that I have not expressly condemned what was bad in 
the characters of my invention and praised what was good. It must be a 
fault in me that I am not gravely shocked at the sins of others unless they 
personally affect me, even when they do I have learnt at last generally to 

excuse them I think I could be justly condemned if I saw only 

people’s faults and were blind to their virtues There is nothing 

more beautiful than goodness and it has pleased me very often to show how 
much of it there is in persons who by common standards would be relent- 
lessly condemned. I have shown it because I have seen it I am 

touched when I see the goodness of the wicked and I am willing enough to 
shrug a tolerant shoulder at their wickedness. I am not my brother’s keeper. 

This attitude of his has moulded his characters in a parti- 
cular way. He has shown hidden baseness in apparently 
good people and drawn in bold relief the goodness of his 
wicked characters which have thus become more interesting. 

One strange fact camiot but strike a reader of Maugham ; 
it is his preference for obscure characters. In his autobio- 
graphy he has told us the reason for that : 

I have been more concerned with the obscure than with the famous. 
They are more often themselves. They have had no need to create a figure 
to protect themselves from the world to impress it. Their idiosyncrasies 
have had more chance to develop in the limited circle of their activity and 
since they have never been in the public eye it has never occurred to them 

that they have anything to conceal. They display their oddities it 

has never struck them that they are odd.... The great man is too 

often all of a piece ; it is the little man that is a bundle of contradictory 
elements. He is inexhaustible. You never come to the end of surprise he 
has in store for you. 

That is the reason of Maugham’s characters being “ little 
men ” ; he has not in his novels any character whom he has 
represented to be a great man — a prominent statesman, for 
example. 



56 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


Maugham, therefore, is interested in the ‘ little men ’ 
for their oddities, and paints his characters with one or more 
eccentricities. There is no normal man or woman in his 
works. In his opinion there is no such thing. He refers once 
to an incident of his student days in the medical school when 
one day his professor, observing him vainly trying to find out 
a certain nerve in its proper place, remarked, “ You see the 
normal is the rarest in the world.” 

“ And though he spoke of anatomy,” Maugham tells 
us, “ he might have spoken with equal truth of man. The 
casual observation impressed itself upon me as many a pro- 
founder one has not and all the years that have passed since 
then, with the increasing knowledge of human nature which 
they have brought, have only strengthened my conviction 
of its truth. I have met a hundred men who seemed perfectly 
normal, only to find in them presently an idiosyncrasy so marked 
as to put them almost in a class by themselves. It has 
entertained me not a little to discover the hidden oddities of 
men to all appearances most ordinary. I have been often 
amazed to come upon a hideous depravity in men who you 
would have sworn were perfectly commonplace. I have at 
last sought the normal man as a precious work of art.” ^ 

These views of the author we must take into consi- 
deration when we examine the people of Maugham’s world. 


IT 

The, Types 

Maugham in his autobiography sums up his experience 
of human character in a way which writers like Ben Jonson 
have done. He points out ; 

One reads that no one exactly resembles anyone else, and that every 
man is uiuque, and in a way this is true, but it is a truth easy to exaggerate : 

1 fhe Normal Man, On a Ckin§o$ S§r§$n, 



NITI8H KUMAE BASTT 67 

in practice men are very much alike. I’hey are divided into comparatively 
few types. 'J’he circumstances mould them in the same way. 

At the very first glance at the world he has created, 
we find such distinct types — types that he finds in the real 
world. 

The most distinct of the types is the typical Govern- 
ment official in the Malay Archipelago and the South Sea 
islands. They are generally in love with the country and 
the work they are engaged in and that is the common trait 
among them. Walker in Mackintosh, Morton in Virtue, War- 
burton in The Out, station, Gruyter in The Vessel of Wrath, and 
George Moon of The Back of Beyond are only a few of them. 
The next type of note is the bigoted clergjrman like the Vicar 
of Blackstable in Of Human Bondage, Davidson of Rain, or 
Jones of The Vessel of Wrath. Then there are the snobs like 
Warburton in The Outstation, Clay of Our Betters, the Blands in 
The Alien Corn, etc. ; the interesting rogues like Strickland 
in The Moon and Sixpence, Ginger Ted in The Vessel of Wrath> 
Nichols of The Narrow Corner ; the characters who inspire 
awe and admiration like Dirk Stroeve of The Moon and Six- 
pence, Walter of The Painted Veil, Erik Christessen of The 
Narrow Corner, Sheppey of Sheppey. 

His women can be divided into three main types. 
There are some devoted and constant wives like Ata in The 
Moon and Sixpence, or the Manchu princess in The Painted 
Veil. Bui these are very rare cases. Generally Maugham’s 
women are hetairas whose prominent trait is sexual blandish- 
ment, such as Bertha Craddock in Mrs. Craddock, Rosie Driffield 
in Cakes and Ale, Luise Frith in The Narrow Corner, Julia in 
Theatre, etc.; as an extreme case of this type we have Mildred 
in Of Human Bondage who turns prostitute. Then there is 
the other type of woman, the motherly ; Miss Ley of Mrs. 
Craddock, second Mrs. Driffield of Cakes and Ale, Sally of Of 
Human Bondage, Mrs. Frith of The Narrov) Corner, etc., fall 
in this category. In them we find sympathy and kindness 

8— 1246B.J, 



58 ‘ WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

which are their prominent traits as sex is the prominent trait 
in the other type. 

These are the most prominent types among Maugham’s 
characters. “ The slightly abnormal circumstances, ” he 
shrewdly guesses, “ in which men live in the countries where 
life is primitive or the environment alien to them, emphasize 
their ordinariness so that it gains a character of its own ; and 
when they are in themselves extraordinary, which of course 
they sometimes are, the want of usual restraints permits them 
to develop their kinks with a freedom that in the more civi- 
lized communities can be hardly won.” ^ But except in one or 
two cases (like that of Warburton -in The Oxdstation) Maugham 
has not been very particular in showing kinks in only those 
people who live outside the restraints of civilization. 

We can find types in every writer. Types occur again 
and again without any variation in mediocre writers. When 
a writer knows his business, he does not allow the same types 
to recur — he individualises them sufficiently to avoid giving 
an impression of monotony. Maugham knows his business. 
When we examine his characters minutely we find that lio 
two characters are the same. There is always some diversity 
in apparent similarity. He has made every character unique. 


Ill 

Infinite Varieties 

No one exactly resembles any one €ilse in Maugham. 
There are the types but even a superficial probing reveals 
the fact that a character never recurs in Maugham. We 
shall examine the main types one by one. Let us take the 
typical Government officials first. 


^ Th€ Summing Up, 



NITISH KUMAR BASF 


59 


Walker, ^ Morton ^ and Warburton ® (to speak only of 
the characters already mentioned) have all the distinct stamp 
of the typical Government official on them. They all love 
the people they govern ; all of them love the constructive 
works they are doing. But Walker is a cunning, coarse 
and jovial fellow ; Morton is shy, just the opposite of Walker ; 
and Warburton is a typical snob. Warburton is never jovial 
like Walker ; he never demonstrates his love for the natives, 
he is stiff and formal. There is Townsend in The Painted 
Veil who does not resemble any of them in any trait except 
efficiency in doing his office work. He is a selfish man, vain 
and pleasure-seeking. Morton tries to win Margery because 
he is honestly infatuated by her but Townsend makes a con- 
quest of Kitty to satisfy his egoistic, pleasure-seeking self. 
Then there is George Moon ‘‘ who resembles Warburton slightly 
in his aloofness. But he is never so stiff ; he is not a snob ; 
moreover, he is tolerant, which Warburton is not. There 
is a number of such characters ; but Maugham has never 
created two Government officials with the same ingredients. 
They all develop different kinks. 

Maugham’s clergymen are generally bigots ; it is natural 
enough as they were almost all of them modelled on his uncle, 
the original of the Vicar of Blackstable. But there is always 
some shade of difference. Davidson ^ is a militant clergy- 
man, full of fire which none of the other clergymen have. 
The Vicar of Blackstable ® has a certain meanness and fear 
of death which mark him out from others. There is no sin- 
cerity in him ; he makes a show of religious fervour. This 
cannot be said of the other clergymen. Davidson is anything 


Mackintosh, The Trembling of a Leaf. 
Virtue, First Person Singular. 

The Outstation, Altogether. 

The Back of Beyond, Ah King. 

Rain, The Trembling of a Leaf. 

Of Human Bondage. 



60 . WILLIAM SOMmitSET MAUGHAM 

but insincere (we must of course leave out the subconscious 
in him). Rev. Jones of The, Vessel of Wrath has a sympathy 
for the sinners under his taciturnity and he takes it to be an 
unpleasant duty to press Gruyter to deport Ginger Ted. 
He is a Davidson but without his vindictiveness and with a 
great deal of humane feeling. Davidson thinks himself a 
flail of God and like Chesterton’s clergyman in his story 
The Flail of God, takes upon himself the task of judging his 
fellow-creatures. He is obsessed with a peculiar conception 
of his religion and his duty to uphold it. He has forgotten the 
essence of his religion, pity, tolerance and forbearance, which 
overflowed in the Founder of his religion. He never really 
feels a trace of sympathy for Miss Thomson. But Jones is 
different. He wants to get Ginger Ted out of the island, 
not to punish him but just for the good of the natives, specially 
the girls who can never withstand Ted’s advances. More- 
over, Jones has one element in him which none of the other 
clergymen possess — it is humour, though not a very large 
quantity of it. “ My sister is a determined woman,” he says 
to Gruyter with a twinkle in his eyes, “ From that night they 
spent on the island he never had a chance ” {i.e., of escaping). 

Maugham’s rogues are of a special brand (which is one 
of the reasons why he is not in favour with the purists). “ A 
defect in my character is that I enjoy the company of those, 
however depraved, who can give me a Roland for my Oliver,” 
he says in The Moon and Sixpence and that explains his pre- 
ference for the pleasant rogues he has created, who are con- 
demned by the general pubhc. The common trait is that they 
are attractive in one way or other. Strickland has an im- 
concemed air and a peculiar sense of humour. Captain Nichols 
a quick wit, and Walker has a coarse humour of his own. But 
as in the case of other types, here too we never find any re- 
petition. The three characters mentioned, who are prominent 
among his rogues, differ greatly from one another. These 
are characters whom Maugham likes but there are others 



kmSH KUJWAB BASU 6l 

whom he admires — angelic characters Uke Dirk Stroeve, ^ Erik 
Christessen, ^ Sheppey, ® Salvatore, * etc. They are so good 
that they never suspect anybody. But with their goodness 
are mixed other traits which make them different personahties. 
Dirk Stroeve is a buffoon and is laughed at. Erik Christessen 
has a romantic soul, but we never laugh at him. We wish 
with Ted Blake that there were some more like him. Sheppey 
is a character who is not passively good hke others. He 
does not only think good of others, but like Christ, whose life 
he tries to follow, devotes his hfe to the good of others. Sal- 
vatore is the simplest of them ; he is the picture of an honest, 
simple soul, which is commoner on earth than the others. 

It is the same story in the case of the other types. 
His hetairas, his mothers, his devoted wives, his snobs are 
types but the characters are individuals too. They are so 
much individualised that a superficial study fail to estabUsh a 
similarity between, say, Bertha Craddock and Julia Lambert, 
Miss Ley and SaUy, Thornton Clay and Warburton or Ata 
and the Manchu Princess of The Painted Veil. In the world 
of Somerset Maugham the typical and the individual charac- 
teristics are inextricably blended together and that is why 
they ring true. 


IV 

The Canvas and the Brtish 

An author’s canvas is as difficult to work on as that 
of the painter. It is difficult in both cases to give full-length, 
three-dimensional portraits ; but it is no difficulty to a genius. 
He produces the illusion of completeness which is so satis- 
fying. Maugham’s characters are never cardboard characters, 

^ The Moon and Sixpence. 

* The Narrow Corner, 

** Sheppey, 

* Salvatore t Coamopolitane, 



62 - AVILLIAM SOMEESET MAUGHAM 

In his novels he builds up bit by bit characters which leave 
a lasting impression on the mind of the reader. He has created, 
for instance, Mildred in Of Human Bondage with her meanness 
and masochistic temperament, and with her lack of humour 
and sense of decency and gratitude, gradually with the help 
of episodes. There, however, he gets the opportunity of uti- 
lising hundreds of pages to unfold the character. In his short 
stories, and more so in his dramas, he has to condense ; he 
cannot get so much space. Still in Mackintosh, for example, 
he has time to impart a lasting impression of Walker’s coarse 
humour, his cunning, his love for the natives and his great 
heart. Even in such stories he gets some space. But there 
are short stories he has written which cover only three or 
four pages and it is there that we find his mastery of the brush 
displayed to the greatest extent. There he cannot show all 
the sides of a character, he can only lay stress on one or two 
of the dominating traits. Still he has to produce the illusion 
of completeness ; he has to make them three-dimensional by 
showing one or two of the dimensions only. Take for 
instance The Promise. ^ Maugham paints there a character 
in Elizabeth Varmont who has always been unfaithful to her 
series of husbands and has entered the divorce court many 
times, but who sticks to her promise to Peter, whom she loves, 
that he would have his release whenever he wanted it. She 
generously offers to provide him with the grounds for divorcing 
her so that he may marry Barbara Canton with whom he has 
fallen in love. Within the short space allowed to him by the 
Cosmopolitan Magazine Maugham has successfully given the 
impression of a strong, honest, upright and sweet woman. 
The illusion of completeness is intact. 

In novels and short stories, however, the author can put 
in his own comments and thus has an advantage over the 
dramatist in filling up a character. Maugham as a playwright 


The Cosmopolitans. 



NinSH KUMAR BASU 


63 


has to depend on bold touches to materialise a character 
and he comes out as successful as in his novels and short 
stories. In The Circle, for instance, he gives a skeleton of 
Arnold’s character in the first half a dozen lines. He is irritated 
by slight causes such as an almost imperceptible disorder in 
the arrangement of the chairs. A few incisive lines tell us 
all about Lady Kitty, her shallowness, her ignorance, her 
self-complacent vanity: 

Lady Kitty. I think it is a beautiful chair. 

Porteous. What do you call it, Hepplewhite ? 

Arnold. No, Sheraton. 

Lady Kitty. Oh, I know. “ The School for Scandal.” 

Again, — 

Lady Kitty. (Touching Elizabeth’s frock) Callot ? 

Elizabath. No, Worth. 

Lady Kitty. I knew it was either Worth or Callot. 

Four words have been enough for Maugham to reveal the 
tender side of two characters: 

Tcddie. Elizabeth ? 

Elizabeth. What ? 

Teddie. Bless you. 

Elizabeth. Idiot. 

There cannot be a greate’' mastery over brush shown. 
Naturally, Maugham has to deal with the predominating 
traits of the characters but he takes care that the characters 
seem like real people with three dimensions and not made 
up of Jonsonian humours. 

From the very first Maugham had been very steady 
with the brush. Even in Liza of Lambeth we never get any 
fault in the character drawing, they never seem improbable. 
The characters have been drawn by a bold and steady hand ; 
Tom with his timid, sweet and forgiving nature, Liza with 
her bubbling life growing gradually lifeless under the sneers 
of her neighbours, Jim with his animal vigour and sensuality, 
boldness and certain sense of honour and responsibility (unlike 



64 * WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

Townsend of The Painted Veil), stand before us full length 
and with sound limbs. When we compare those early novels 
with his mature works, however, we find a sxibtle difference. 
His first products were traced in broad lines ; he had not 
yet had the experience of the different strata that may be 
found in a character. Liza, Tom or Jim are made of one piece ; 
it is the same case with Alec of The Explorer and in fact with 
the characters in all the novels up to Of Human Bondage. 
Even in Of Human Bondage we find characters made of one 
piece ; there are no contradictory elements shown in most 
of the characters. Philip is good, there is no baseness shown 
in him, so also in the case of Thorpe Athelny. Mildred is 
detestable and we do not get any redeeming feature in her. 
But there are one or two minor characters like Cronshaw 
or Fanny who are not of one piece like the rest. Cronshaw is 
wise but he never follows his wisdom. He is shrewd, yet in 
some matters he is foolish. In him, weakness of wiU counter- 
acts his wisdom. Fanny, with her ill temper and the love 
she hides in her breast for Philip, is another such problem. 
But still we do not yet get a striking contrast of contradictory 
elements as we get, say, in Burton in A Friend in Need. ^ He 
is described as “ one of the best ” by those who know him. 
But as the author says in the story “ we are a haphazard bupdle 
of inconsistent qualities. ” The chief thing that struck the 
narrator was Burton’s kindliness ; but a story which he got 
out of him made him modify his opinion a little. Once a man 
came to Burton for employment. Burton told him that he 
would give him work if he succeeded in swimming across a 
strong current which he himself had done in youth. He knew 
that the man had ruined his constitution by drink and dis- 
sipation and that “ the current round the beacon was more 
than he could manage ” and he admitted at last that he had 
no vacancy in his office. No wonder the narrator was a trifle 
shocked. 


^ Cosmopolitans^ 



NITlSH KUMAR BASU 


65 


Or take another, say, Nichols in The Narrow Corner. 
He is shrewd and bold. He is not afraid of any person, neither 
does he turn a hair when he faces death on an angry sea ; but 
he has a superstitious awe of his wife who finds him out wher- 
ever he hides himself ; he turns green when at last he sees 
her coming up the stairs of a restaurant in Singapore where 
he is talking with Dr. Saunders. 

This difference in portraiture is due to his mature ex- 
pereience of human beings. He was not aware before of the 
different strata in a person. He dealt then with the super- 
ficial. “ I had not yet learnt, ” he says in The Moon and 
Sixpence, “ how contradictory is human nature ; I did not 
know how much pose there is in the sincere, how much base- 
ness in the noble, nor how much goodness in the reprobate ” ; 
“ 1 expected then people to be more of a piece than I do now, 
and I was distressed to find so much vindictiveness in so 
charming a creature. 1 did not reahse how motley are the 
qualities that go to make up a human being. Now 1 am well 
aware that pettiness and grandeur, malice and charity, hatred 
and love, can find place side by side in the same human heart.” 
It is the result of the experience he had by travels and we 
get the products of this experience in a marked manner from 
about the period The Moon and Sixpence was written. Mrs. 
Strickland, Blanche Stroeve and Dirk Stroeve in that book 
are such bundles of contradictions. After that not only we 
get a series of characters who are at the very first glance 
revealed to be made up of contradictory elements but we 
seldom get characters which are otherwise. 

There are critics who have complained of Maugham’s 
lack of pity. Harold WilUams, for example, in his book 
Modern English Writers, says of Maugham that “ he does 
not appear to have acquired a strong sympathy with human 
beings.” Such a remark only shows how superficial a critic 
can be. Maugham’s slightly cynical attitude makes the critics 
judge like that. They think apparently that sentimentality 

9— 1^46B.J. 



66 - WILLIAM SOMERSET MAITGHAM 

is the best expression of pity. If they had triedto look 
into the attitude of Maugham, it would not have been 
difficult for them to change their opinion. Beneath such cyni- 
cal attitude is always a deeply flowing stream of pity. We 
find it in abundance in his first novel. When he bitterly 
portrays the callousness of Mrs. Kemp and others at the time 
of Liza’s death, we are reminded of Hood’s lines, 

“ One more unfortunate 
Weary of breath, 

Rashly importunate, 

Gone to her death !” 

The brush which paints such scenes cannot be unsympathetic. 

In fact Maugham has painted his world with a great 
deal of sympathy but his apathy to sentimentality gives it 
a coating of cynicism. His world is made up of characters 
whose oddness gives them the individuality they possess ; 
the Thorpe Athelnies, ^ the Walters, ^ the Dirk Stroeves, ® the 
Nicholses, * the Edward Barnards, ^ the Elizabeth Vermonts, ® 
the Louises, ’ and others live in the reader’s mind for their 
oddities. But they are never unsympathetically painted. 
Maugham seldom is unsympathetic to human failings (except 
in one or two cases like that of say Townsend in The Painted 
Veil). The complaint against him is due probably to the 
fact that he has not painted in crimson the miseries of people, 
like Galsworthy, Gissing and others. But sympathy and pity 
cannot be expected to take the same channel of expression 
always. In Maugham’s case at first the channel was an atti- 
tude of cynicism which afterwards gave place to that of 
uncommon tolerance. ® 

Of Human Bondage. 

The Painted Veil. 

The, Moon and Six pence. 

The Narroiv Comer. 

The Fall of Edward Bernard^ The Trembling of a Leaf. 

The Promise^ Cosmopolitans. 

Louise, Cosmopolitans. 

Vide Chapter VII, “ In Quest of Peace,’* 



CHAPTER VI 
The Spirit of Puck 

“ My agents pressed me to write humorously but for 
this I had no aptitude,” Maugham modestly admits in his 
autobiography. But it is difficult to reconcile this state- 

ment with the fact that he has written “ roaringly funny ” ^ 
plays like Jaclc Straw. The explanation lies in the peculiar 
quality of Maugham’s humour. It is better appreciated by 
an audience than a reader. It is better ‘ acted ’ than read. 

This is the reason why his novels do not seem to be as 
full of humour as his phays seem to the audience. There are 

scenes in his novels which reveal the humorous dramatist 

but a reader without a keen sense of the ridiculous may be 
expected to exclaim like Fred Blake, “ What’s there to laugh 
at ! ”2 Let us take a little scene from his latest novel Theatre. 
Julia is very much hurt because her husband is rather 

cold. 


, She throws her hands to heaven. 

“ I might be squint-eyed and hump-backed. I might be fifty. Am 
I so unattractive as all that ? It’s so humiliating to have to beg for love . 
Misery, misery. ” 

That was a very good movement, dear. As if you were throwing 
a cricket ball. Remember that,” says Michael. 

Only good acting can bring out the humour of the scene fully. 
Here is another scene from the same book. Julia is angry 
because Langton has managed to get rid of Michael by provid- 
ing him with a contract in America. 


* Sir John Squire, Illustrated London News^ Feb. 12, 1938. 

* The Narrow Corner, 


VISVA— BHARATI 





68 . 


William Somerset maugham 


Julia goes up to him and stares into his eyes searchingly. 

“ Have you done all this to get me to stay on for another year ! 
Have you broken my heart and ruined my whole life just to keep me in your 
rotten Theatre ?” 

“ I swear I haven’t Damn it, 1 would not play you a dirty 

trick like that.” 

“ You liar, you filthy liar.” 

“ I .swear it is the truth ” 

“ Prove it then,” she said violently. 

“ How can I prove it * You know I’m decent really.” 

“ Give me fifteen pounds a week and I’ll believe you.” 

It is not that we do not get amused when we read them but 
the fact is that the .stage could "have done better justice to 
such scenes ; they could have made the audience roar. A 
scene from Of Human Bondage and another from the The 
Explorer will make this point clear. Here is a scene from the 
daily life in the Hospital where Philip worked. 

Once a woman came who was a member of the ballet 
at a famous music hall. She looked fifty, but gave her age 
as twenty-eight. She rolled her eyes round the young men, 
with a long sweep of her painted eyelashes, and flashed her 
yellow teeth at them. She spoke with a cockney accent but 
with an affectation of refinement which made every word a 
feast of fun. 

“ It’s what they call a winter cough,” Dr Tyrell tells her gravely. 

“ A great many middle-aged women have it ” 

Well I never ^ That is a nice thing to say to a lady. No one ever 
called me middle-aged before.” She opened her eyes wide and cocked her 
head on one side looking at him with indescribable archness 

“ That is the disadvantage of our profession,” said he. “ It forces 
us sometimes to be ungallant ” She took the prescription and gave him one 
last, luscious smile. 

‘‘ You will come and see me dance, dearie, won’t you ?” 

“ I will indeed.” 

The scene from The Explorer tells us how Dick Lomas and 
Julia Crowley get engaged. 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


69 


“ Well,” says Dick, “ I can’t suffer the humiliation of another re- 
fusal, Why don’t you propose to me ?” 

What cheek !” she cried. 


“ Well ?” he said. 

” I shan’t,” she answered. 

“ Then 1 shall continue to be a brother to you.” 

She got up and curtsied. 

“ Mr. Lomas, I am a widow, twenty-nine years of age, and extremely 
eligible. My maid is a treasure, and my dressmaker is charming. I’m clever 
enough to laugh at your jokes and not so learned as to know where they come 
from.” 

“ Really you are very long-winded. I said it all in four words.” 

‘'You evidently put it too briefly, since you were refused,” she 

•railed. 

She stretched out her hands and he took them. 

“ I think I’ll do it by post,” she said. “ It’ll sound so much more 
becoming.” 

“ You’d better get it over now.” 

“ You know I don’t really want to marry you a bit. I’m only doing 
it to please.” 

“ I admire your unselfishness.” 

“ You will say yes if I ask you ?” 

“ I refuse to commit myself.” 

“ Obstinate beast,” she cried. 

She curtsied once more, as well as she could since he was firmly 
holding her hands. 

” Sir, I have the honour to demand your hand in marriage.” 

He bowed elaborately. 

“ Madam, I have much pleasure in acceding to your request.” 

A good actress could have made the ogling of the im- 
pudent music-hall artist very amusing. The elaborate curtsies 
of Julia and Dick would have looked wonderfully comic to a 
twentieth-century audience. The scene in Theatre in which 
Julia Lambert mimics Lydia Mayne alone in her room fails 
to bring any smile to the reader. “ Julia began to speak in 
Lydia’s voice, with the lazy drawl that made every remark 
she uttered sound faintly obscene.” A reader has every diffi- 
culty in imagining this scene. But it would have been a 



lO WILLIAM SOMEBSET MAUGHAM 

howling scene in a theatre, provided, of course, there could 
be found an actress to act that. 

When we examine his plays, it is not difficult to see 
why he has so long fascinated the London audience which 
likes a good laugh. Barret Clark tells a story how the director 
found in the rehearsal of Lady Frederick that “ it was neces- 
sary to delete many lines which would be sure to arouse laughter 
because too many laughs in quick succession might destroy 
the continuity of the action. ” ^ Whether this anecdote be 
true or not, it does justice to Maugham’s almost uncanny 
power of amusing his audience which has drawn an unwilling 
admiration even from a critic like Sawyer. ^ 

In The Circle we find the best expression of this power 
of Maugham ; what was too flashy has been toned down by 
a mature hand, what was only a cluster of verbal fencing, 
quips and jests, now deepens into a more genuine laughter. 
The drama opens with the exhibition of an oddity in a person 
which never fails to amuse. And a caricature, as is only 
natural, shines better on the stage than on paper. When 
we read the first few lines of the drama they look rather 
colourless. 

(Arnold comes and slightly alters the position of one of the chairs 
and addresses the footman.) 

Arnold. George, who is supposed to look after this room ? 

George. I don’t know, Sir. 

Arnold. I wish, when they dust, they’d take care to replace the 
things exactly as they were before. 

Apparently there is nothing humorous in a man’s just exas- 
peration but the footman’s unperturbedness shows off Arnold’s 
diosyncrasy — his proneness to be irritated at trifles — ^in a 
manner which cannot but amuse the audience. The audience 
*8 at once put into a laughing vein and is prepared for the 
3ther tricks which Maugham has up his sleeve. 


^ A SUuiy of Contemporary Drama. 

• The Comed/y of Manners from Sheridan to Maugham, 



l^ITISH Kt^MAR BASIi 


n 


Verbal badinage is another thing that helps to keep 
up the atmosphere of fun and laughter in The Circle. The 
play is full of it. Here are some of them: 

Elizabeth. Damn. 

Arnold. (Good humouredly) I wish you would not say that Eliza- 
beth I should have thought you could say “ Oh bother or some- 

thing like that. 

Elizabeth. But that would not express my sentiments. Besides 
at the speech day, when you were giving away the prizes, you said there were 
no synonyms in the English language. 

Arnold. There are no synonyms in the English language. 

Elizabeth. In that case, I shall be regretfully forced to continue 
to say damn whenever I feel like it. 

Another : 

Clive. How old are you ? 

Elizabeth. Twenty- five. 

C/live. I’m never cross with a woman under thirty. 

Elizabeth. Oh, then Tve got ten years. 

Clive. Mathematics ? 

Elizabeth . No . Paint . 

They amuse even a reader ; but it is very easy to imagine 
how such sallies of wit when spoken sharply, with the addi- 
tional advantages of expression with the face and movements, 
can become more amusing. 

There are other means which Maugham has employed 
to infuse mirth into his audience. He has created a jolly 
person like Elizabeth whose mirth is infectious. The other 
method, that of caricature, we shall deal with presently in 
detail. 

One of the easiest methods by which a humorous writer 
can amuse his admirers is caricature. It has always been 
found to be infallible. But there is caricature and caricature. 
There is a kind of caricature which is meant to be a caricature, 
a presentation of obvious deformities of body or of mind, which 
generally tends to become malicious and reveal a certain coarse- 
ness of mind on the part of the writer. This coarseness appeals 



72 ' 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


to the mind of a coarse reader or a coarse audience ; but a 
cultured man cannot appreciate it. The best caricature is 
the good-humoured caricature, a caricature done by giving a 
good-natured twist when depicting a character. It does 
not arouse the boisterous mirth which the first kind of cari- 
cature does ; the reader or the audience, specially when they 
are cultured people, smile at the caricature presented but they 
smile with sympathy. A coarse man will laugh to see a man 
tumble through no fault of his ; it is mirth of this nature that 
is roused by the first kind of caricature. “ It is another thing,” 
as Bergson remarks, ” to tumble because you were intent upon 
a star. It was certainly a star’ at which Don Quixote was 
gazing. ” ^ A cultured reader’s heart goes to Don Quixote 
though he may laugh at him. This is the best kind of cari- 
cature. We never feel any repulsion for such a character 
though we do so in the case of the first sort. In Maugham 
we find both and an examination of that reveals an interesting 
development of his mind. 

In his first novel, Liza of Lambeth^ Mrs. Kemp is a cari- 
cature of the first type. She is oblivious of everything except 
her own interest and what is strange is that “ her own interest ” 
does not include her daughter. She is always complaining 
about her gout and thus does not fail to be a little funny, but 
it is a caricature of the worst type and when Maugham paints 
the selfish woman rejoicing that she had insured Liza and so 
would not suffer any material loss we feel disgusted. Mrs. 
Kemp does not supply an innocent unadulterated mirth. 
In Mrs. Craddock we have a caricature of the worthless country 
nobility, the set including Mr, Bacot, General Hancock, 
Mrs. Branderton and others ; Miss Glover is also the cari- 
cature of a prudish, bigoted woman. We can feel Maugham’s 
malicious amusement in such caricatures ; we find that also 
in his hit at the general British public which swallows Edward 


^ Laughter* 



NITISH KUMAR BA8U 


73 


Craddock’s sentimental election stunt. In his great novel 
Of Human Bondage, too, we find traces of such malicious cari- 
cature, — in his depiction of the narrow-minded Vicar of Black- 
stable, the picture of his school life including the ignorant and 
narrow-minded teachers, and in the character of Heyward. 
But here we find an inkling of the change in Maugham’s mind. 
In Heyward we find a worthless, shallow character, but 
Maugham does not give the impression that Heyward is abso- 
lutely disgusting as would have been very easy and natural 
to do ; Maugham manages to make the reader feel, if not 
sympathy, at least a little tolerance. 

It must be noted that all of these caricatures are not 
amusing ; some of them are satirical pictures without the 
least attempt at humour. This is due to a mood of bitterness 
in Maugham’s mind which changes with his maturity. 

To this period belongs the satirical play Our Betters ; 
Maugham has been merciless to the foppish dandies like Clay 
who take scrupulous care about their dress and accent. The 
general tone of the play is of merciless caricature. It is of 
course not quite right to identify the tone of a play with the 
mood of the dramatist. A dramatist has to look to his audience. 
What with the effect of the Boer War and what with the rise 
of the school of Shaw the satirical plays came into vogue in 
the beginning of this century ; and if this play had been an 
isolated piece we would have been bound to judge it as a drama 
d la mode. But it is not an isolated piece ; it fits in, with 
the similar plays that had preceded, with a distinct attitude 
of Maugham which we also find in his novels. The Maugham 
of this period has a bitter and unsatisfied mind. 

But gradually this changes and Maugham learns to take 
a tolerant view of people. In 1919 Maugham produced Rain 
and Moon and Sixpence, and these two reveal the two currents 
flowing in his mind. Davidson in Rain is a satirical caricature 
but Dirk Stroeve in The Moon and Sixpence is a sympathetic 
caricature ; he resembles Don Quixote. He can never think 


10— 1246B.J, 



74 - WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

ill of other people and for that he suffers ; his eyes are fixed 
at the stars, that is why he stumbles. A coarse mind finds 
him a butt of ridicule ; he is a buffoon. Once when he 
describes with realistic details how he had taken a purge his 
wife is disgusted with his childishness: 

“ You seem to like making a fool of yourself,” she says. 

Dirk Stroeve is dismayed and answers, “ Sweetheart, have I vexed 
you ? I’ll never take another. It wa.s only because I was bilious. I lead 
a very sedentary life. 1 don’t take enough exercise. For three days I 
hadn’t ” 

Indeed his foolishness cannot but incite laughter. But our 
heart goes out to him even when we are laughing at his fool- 
ish childishness. Maugham has created a fool whose foolishness 
is very touching. This heralds a distinct change in Maugham. 
From now on his caricatures ai'e never bitter ; they are solely 
for the sake of amusement. Of course we cannot expect to 
find the appeal to the heart in every one of such funny por- 
traits, but what we find is that the sting has been taken away, 
there is no further satirical motive. In The Circle we find 
two caricatures, one in Arnold and another in Lady Kitty; 
but the idiosyncrasies of Arnold, as has already been pointed 
out, supply pure amusement and so does the complacent 
ignorance of Lady Kitty. Here is a specimen of her usua* 
conversation which reveals mplahercent mind: 

Lady Kitty. 1 think it’s a beautiful chair. 

Porteous. What do you call it, Hcpplewhite ? 

Arnold. No, Sheraton. 

Lady Kitty. Oh I know. “ The School for Scandal.” 

But she is purely an object of fun and not repulsion. Miss 
Jones 1 is another typical case with her idea of virtue, modesty, 
chastity and sense of proftriety : she is a funny figure. But 
the' reader is never made to sneer at Miss Jones, as he was 


^ The Vessel of Wrath, Altogether. 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


75 


made to in the case of Miss Glover in Mrs. Craddock. Miss 
Glover has a heart of gold, yet her prudishness prevents us. 
from fully sympathising with her ; we suspect that the author 
finds her prudishness rather disgusting. But Miss .Jones has 
been pictured by a different Maugham, from a mature, tolerant 
point of view, and whenever she bristles up with her sense of 
virtue, the reader is made to smile good-naturedly. The same 
is the case with “ the celebrated Mortimer Ellis,” the bigamist 
in Round Dozen^. Mortimer Ellis never disgusts the reader 
nor makes him indignant, even when he succeeds in achieving 
his ambition of marrying for the twelfth time. He is only 
an amusing figure, and has been portrayed just to supply fun 
foi’ “ a hundred days ” to the reading public as the author 
admits in the preface to First Person Singidar. The narrator 
finds that he does not entirely dislike Mr. Kelada, the Mr. Know- 
all as he is nicknamed, though he has a discursive habit and has 
been represented to have disgusted all the people on board the 
ship.2 In his recent novel Theatre he has indulged in another 
caricature in Michael who is very vain of his beauty. Even 
when he has a sagging belly and a double chin, he draws in 
his belly and throws out his chin whenever he is complimented 
on his beauty. But he supplies pure fun and this is entirely 
different from the caricature in Mrs. Kemp. There is no touch 
of malice or resentment here. “ When nature produces a 
buffoon,” the author remarks once, “ he is a fair game and 
he has no just cause for complaint if the novelist to the best 
of his ability presents him as he is for the entertainment of 
his generation.” ® There is no ulterior motive now other 
than entertainment. 

Side by side with the decrease of Maugham’s satirising 
tendency and the increase of genial tolerant humour we find 
him adopting another method of amusing his readers and 


1 First Person Singular. 

2 Mr. Know-all, Cosmopolitans. 

® Preface, First Person Singular. 



76 * WILLIAM SOMERSEl MAUGHAM 

audiences ; he ' begins to create more and more characters 
who radiate mirth and joy. In the first few novels and plays 
we do not get such characters. The first appearance of such 
characters is in The Explorer. There we meet a pair of jolly 
people in Dick Lomas and Mrs. Crowley, who are joined to- 
gether in bonds of matrimony quite befittingly. Such charac- 
ters appear more and more as Maugham becomes tolerant 
and the bitterness leaves his mind. Strickland is the beginning 
of a series of characters whose very rogiiishness provides a 
source of humour. The narrator frankly tells Strickland that 
he is a cad. “ Now that you’ve that off your chest, let’s go 
and have dinner,” replies Strickland.^ One cannot but be 
amused by such a character. He is not exactly jolly as the 
others that follow are, but in him we get the seed of a Nichols. 
Walker,*^ Waddington,^ Gruyter,^ are attempts at drawing 
such characters the best example of which we find in Dr. 
Saunders and more so in Captain Nichols of The Narrow Corner. 
There are other characters portrayed, whose jollity is not due 
to their roguishness but due to bubbling life in them ; such 
characters are Elizabeth of The Circle, Rosie Driffield of Cake^ 
and Ale and Julia of Theatre. 

We have discussed how the peculiar quality of his 
humour makes it more effective on stage than when read. 
But that does not mean that he is never humorous in his 
novels and short stories. We have already discussed some 
humorous scenes and bits of conversation which are quite 
amusing even when they are read, though of course they are 
more effective on the stage. As he grows mature Maugham 
succeeds in becoming very amusing to his readers, whenever 
he wants to do that. One of the methods he becomes master 
of, is that of amusing situations. When Maugham describes 


' The Moon and Sixpence. 

® Mackintosh^ The Trembling of a Leaf. 
® The Painted Veil. 

^ The Vessel of Wrath. 



WItlSH KUMAR BASt 


77 


the story of a luncheon which he took with a lady, who pro- 
fessed never to take “ more than one thing for luncheon ” 
and ate up food to the value of nearly eighty gold francs, it 
cannot but make one chuckle.^ There are a number of such 
humorous stories depending on situations : stories like The 
Closed Skop,^ The Wash Tub,^ The Creative Impulse,^ etc., 
give ample proof of the author’s power of inventing humorous 
situation. 

In his latest novels. Cakes and Ale, The Narroio Corner 
and Theatre, we find him a full-fledged humorist. These are 
full of the humorous sallies of which he has become a master. 
Here is a bit of conversation between Captain Nichols and 
Dr. Saunders : 

Dr. Saunders. “ Socrates suffered the same sort of afiBiction (domes- 
tic unhappiness) but I never heard that it affected his digestion.” 

“ Who was ’e ?” 

An honest man.” 

Much good it did him, 1 lay.” 

‘‘ In point of fact it did not.” 

■■ You’ve got to take things as you find them, I say, and if you’re 
too particular your won’t get anywhere.” 

What makes The Narrow Corner so full oi humour, is the pre- 
sence of this priceless pair in it. Dr. Saunders looks at every- 
thing from an Olympian height with a tolerant eye and finds 
fun in life itself. Nichols with his eternal complaint about his 
dyspepsia and his roguishness is a constant source of humour. 
Roguery is a thing which never fails to amuse any generation i 
we have only to look at the gallery of such pleasant rogues 
as FalstafF, Jack Wilton,® Brainworm, Scapin,® Gil Bias,’ to 
get the proof of it. 

^ The Luncheon, Cosmopolitans, 

® Cosmopolitans. 

* Ibid.^ 

* Altogether. 

« Thomas Nash©, JoaJc Wilton or The Unfortunate Traveller. 

« Moliere, Cheats of Scapin. 

’ L© Sage, Alain R©n4, Oil Bias de Santillane. 



7^ WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

Dr. Saunders finds his whole life a bit of fun, but in 
The Narrow Corner Maugham does not succeed in imparting 
that sense. He does that in his latest novel Theatre. He presents 
everything in a comic manner. Love’s painful aspects, which 
helped to create the gloomy atmosphere of Of Human Bondage^ 
turn into a comic affair. Maugham is able now to look at 
life as a disinterested spectator and from his height can see 
things in a way which is not possible to the actors in the drama 
of life. Maugham has succeeded in following the advice of 
Bergson : 

Now step aside and look upon life as a disinterested spectator ; 
many a drama will turn into comedy. 

A reader of Theatre remains in no doubt about the truth 
of the self-revealing statement of Maugham that he is a 
“ humorist by profession.” ^ 


^ Laughter. 

* TM TraH^r, Ashenden. 



CHAPTER VII 


In Quest of Peace 

I 

The Pessimist 

“ What is life ?” asked Count Leo Tolstoy ^ ; 

“ What, without asking, hither hurried whence ? 

And, without asking, whither hurried hence ?,” asked 
the eastern philosopher Omar Khayyam, and as Dr. Saunders 
in The Narrow Garner points out, “ ever since men picked up 
a glimmer of intelligence in the primeval forests, they’ve been 
asking those questions.” Thinkers of all ages and of all 
countries have tried to fathom the mystery of life and find 
some answer to these troubling problems. Some like A. L. 
Barbauld have never tried to go much deeper than what they 
see : 

Life ! I know not w'hat thou art, 

But know that thou and I must part. 

But greatei' intellects are not satisfied with such simplicity 
and have tried to understand the meaning of ‘ Life. ’ And 
their feeling about life has sometimes (indeed, more often 
than not) been pessimistic : 

a tale 

Told by an idiot full of sound and fury 
Signifying nothing. 

— and sometimes been optimistic. In the nineteenth century 
the feeling about life tended to be optimistic. Browning felt : 

Ood’s in his Heaven — 

Airs right with the World.^ 

* A Confession and What I Believe^ 

^ Browning, Pippa Passes, 



8(1 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

^tich was also the attitude of Tennyson, ^ and Tennyson only 
echoed the general attitude of the age. But even amid such 
contentment we find the note of rebellion in writers like Thomas 
Hardy ; Angel Clare ^ parodies Browning’s lines : 

God is not in his Heaven — 

And all’s wrong with the World. 

Hardy’s novels, and most of his poems too, are steeped in this 
spirit all through and from this standpoint, if not from any 
other, he can be said to have heralded the twentieth century. 
It was becoming increasingly apparent from the last decade 
of the nineteenth century that the whole structure of Vic- 
torian beliefs was crumbling down. Intellectuals were begin- 
ning to ask questions. They were not satisfied with taking 
things at their face value and with the explanation of every- 
thing by accepting a benevolent and loving God as an axiom- 
atic truth. The biology of Darwin had already given God’s 
well-established seat in Heaven a shake from which it hardly 
ever recovered. 

This was not the only thing the intellectuals began 
to question ; they also began to look askance at the existing 
state of society. This has always been done by the outstanding 
intellects of every age ; but now this dissatisfaction, which 
began with the intellectuals, spread quickly among the common 
masses as a result of the disastrous Boer War. These shattered 
the commoners’ faith in the aristrocracy and their rulers whose 
rights they had so long recognised unquestioned. One thing 
leads to another ; the ball once set in motion went on rolling 
and thus the age of contentment gave place to the “ Age of 
Interrogation.” It was amid such general dissatisfaction, 
spiritual and material, that Somerset Maugham took up the 
profession of writing as a serious vocation. 

^ “ And all is well, tho’ faith and form 

Be sunder’d in the night of fear. ” {In Memoriam.) 

* D'UrhtrviUt$. 



NITISH KUMAE BASTT 


81 


As was only natural, Maugham, too, began to rend 
the veil of sham concealing the real state of things from the 
contented Victorian eyes. But he took a different road from 
Bernard Shaw. While Shaw is an active social reformer* 
cudgelling society with a view to bringing about a better order 
of things, Maugham has a more detached manner contem- 
plating men and things with something like philosophic irony. 

Maugham informs us in his autobiography that he 
learnt at least one thing from the elementary science taught 
in the medical school. He gathered the idea that everything 
conforms to the laws of nature and man is no exception. “ I 
believed that we were wretched puppets at the mercy of a 
ruthless fate ; and that, bound by the inexorable laws of 
nature, we were doomed to take part in the ceaseless struggle 
for existence with nothing to look forward to but inevitable 
defeat.” He had a vague idea of this nature before, but it 
was this knowledge of science that made it more distinct. 
“ I was violently pessimistic, ” he admits now, but from his 
first novel Liza of Lambeth, written when he was still a medical 
student, we do not get exactly that impression. We do not 
get the poignant note that we find later in Of Human Bondage. 
We cannot but suspect that though he has intellectually taken 
up. this attitude of pessimism, he does not yet whole-heartedly 
feel it. We do not get here the impress of a despairing soul, 
the utmost we can get is the humane sympathy of the author 
for the miseries and sufferings of the people, which he had 
witnessed in course of his medical duties in Lambeth. 

We see pessimism, that was a mere seed in his first novel, 
develop to its fullest growth in Of Human Bondage. Between 
this book and Liza of Lambeth he wrote about a dozen plays 
and novels but in none of them we get the true impress of 
the author ; he was trying to be popular and he was develop- 
ing his medium ; he was a little mechanical, his soul had 
very little opportunity of coming out in an inspired moment. 
Of Human Bondage is the first book he wrote under inspiration, 

U— 1246B.J. 



82 ■ 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


feeling an uncontrollable urge from within. This book 
is the record of the disturbance which Maugham was feeling 
in his soul. 

“ What is the meaning of all these sufferings ?”, he had 
been asking himself for many years. In search for an answer 
Maugham began to study the philosophers, classical and 
modern, of the East and of the West ; but they only made 
him a more confirmed pessimist. He went to them for an 
answer which would make him happy. But he could not 
believe in Karma which could have given him what he wanted. 
He wanted something positive to take away from him the 
thoughts that troubled him ; he has given a clear idea of the 
restless state of his mind in Of Human Bondage. Philip, 
there, is the projection of Maugham himself. Philip thinks : 

What is the use of it ? 

1’he effort was so incommensurate with the result. The bright Jiopes 
of youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment. Pain 
and disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily. What did 
it all mean ? He thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had 
entered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his friend- 
lessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth. He did 
not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do, and 
what a cropper he had come ! Other men, with no more advantages than he, 
succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed. It seemed pure chance. 
The rain falls alike upon the just and upon the unjust and for nothing was 
there a why and a wherefore. 

Cronshaw, the poet, had presented Philip with a piece of Per- 
sian carpet as an answer to Philip’s questions about the 
meaning of life ; “ you shall have to find the answer yourself,” 
he had added with that present. And Philip finds that answer 
one day on the streets of London, after being disappointed 
as a painter, bruised in love, tossed roughly in a blanket by 
whimsical fortune and compelled to become a shop-walker 
to escape starving. Suddenly the answer occurred to him : 

The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning. On the earth, 
satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under the 



i^ITISH KUMAR BASU 


83 


influence of conditions which were part of the planet’s history ; and as there 
had been a beginning of life upon it, so, under influence of other conditions, 
there would be an end ; man, no more significant than other forms of life, 
had come not as the climax of creation but as a physical reaction to the en- 
vironment There was no meaning in life, and man by. living served 

no end. It was immaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he 
lived or ceased to live. Life was insignificant and death without consequence.” 

Maugham has become at this stage convinced of the insig- 
nificance of human beings. They cannot influence their actions. 
They are bound hand and foot. “ The illusion of free will 
is so strong in my mind,” says Philip, “ that I can’t get away 

from it, but I believe it is only an illusion Before I 

do anything I feel that I have a choice, and that influences 
what 1 do ; but afterwards, when the thing is done, 1 believe 
that it was inevitable from all eternity.” Maugham would 
not have felt so strongly about it if he could believe in the 
philosophy of Karma or in God, whom he had long ago taken 
to be “a hypothesis that a reasonable man must reject. ” ^ 
But he could not, and as a result, we find him believing in 
“ the meaninglessness of pain which is pessimism’s unanswered 
argument.” Philip finds that life weaves a pattern but it has 
no meaning just as the pattern on the Persian carpet. Phihp 
remembers the story of the Eastern king, who ordered a sage 
to prepare a history of man and the sage at the death-bed of 
the king brought the essence of the history of man ; it was this : 

He was born, he suffered and he died. 

We find that in Of Human Bondage Maugham shows a con- 
viction in the stark realities of the world, otherwise he could 
not be such a pessimist. If one can convince himself with 
the Eastern philosopher that — 

in and out, above and below 

It is nothing but a Magic Shadow show 
l^layed in a Box whose candle is the Sun, 

Round which we Phantom Figures come and go — ^ 


^ The Sununhig Up, 

* Fitzerald, Omar Khayyam. 



84 , WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

the whole basis of pessimism would have gone ; man could 
have laughed at suffering as it is a mere “ Shadow show ” ; 
it would have seemed to him foolishness to cry over a piece 
of unreality. To some extent Maugham’s life resembles 
Philip’s, a record of disillusionment and suffering. At the 
time of writing the book, he informs us in his autobiography, 
he was feeling very tired and disgusted with the world. And 
he conceived an idea how to find peace and happiness. “ I 
conceived these notions, ” he says, “ when I was still at work 
on Of Human Bondage and turning my wishes into fiction, as 
writers will, towards the end of it I drew a picture of the 
marriage I should have liked to. make. ” ^ He thought he 
could find happiness in a marriage with a girl like Sally, steady, 
hard-working and tender, always looking to his comforts 
in her quiet way. This is, however, also a passing fancy in 
Maugham’s mind. 


II 

The Shadow of a U topia 

“ Life weaves a meaningless pattern,” is the conclusion 
that Maugham arrived at in Of Human Bondage ; but we ha^ve 
seen that at the end of that book he came to the conclusion 
that it is not a bad idea to make that pattern beautiful. How 
to make it so, is the question that troubles him now. When 
writing Of Human Bondage he had one fancy and now he has 
another, a more clearly conceived one. 

The hardships of the life of an Intelligence Officer in 
the War told on his health, and as he did not have any more 
work to do for the time being, he took the opportunity of 
withdrawing himself for some time. He began travelling. And 
after a few months in America he went to the South Seas. 


^ The Summing Vp, 



KmSH KtJMAR BAStr 


80 


From his youth, when he read The Ebb-tide and The Wrecker, he 
had always wanted to go there. His ill health perhaps made 
him more susceptible to beauty and when he saw the islands^ 
their hectic beauty ravished him. He was fascinated ; and he 
was not the only writer who was caught by their- lure and 
found his ideal there. They had inflamed the imagination of 
Pierre Loti, Stevenson and Joseph Conrad. Keable finds his 
heaven here : 

Here is peace. Here is beauty as a golden ladder up to the far and 
unknown heaven of our hope ; here is simple quiet living, boundless wealth 
a sure reward. . , .But I go. I must have people and self-complacent civiliza^ 
tion and London, I suppose. ^ 

The same note of yearning for that land is found in Rupert 
Brooke : 

I was going far away from gentleness and beauty and kind- 
ness and the smell of the lagoons and the thrills of that dancing and the scar- 
let of the flamboyants and the white and gold and other flowers * 

He found it too painful to drag himself away from that heaven 
on earth and it was the same case with Maugham. He had 
already been disgusted with civilization and was sure that 
the peace which he wanted could not be found there and now 
like Keable and Rupert Brooke he had the golden vision. And 
when he went back he felt as much sorrow as Rupert Brooke 
or Keable. That note of yearning we find in The Moon and 
Sixpence : 

Tahiti is very far away, and I know that I should never see it again_ 
A chapter of my life was closed, and I felt a little nearer to inevitable death. 

The Moon and Sixpence was written more than three years 
after his visit to Tahiti. In the mean time the War had ended 
leaving a distasteful memory in Maugham’s mind ; and more 
important stiU, he had to remain an invalid as a result of 
tuberculosis for the last two years. It is a well-known fact 

^ laU of Dreams. 

* The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke, with a Memoir, (2nd edition, 1928» 
published by Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd.) p. oxvii. 



86 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

that invalids, speciaUy those suffering from tuberculosis, 
develop a very romantic temperament — we owe to this disease 
the romantic and adventurous books of Stevenson. Perhaps 
the same thing happened in the case of Maugham. As an 
invalid he had enough time to ponder over the War, and the 
contrast that the peaceful scenery of Tahiti offered to it, began 
to loom very large, and as a result of that we have the ex- 
quisite stories. The Fall of Edward Bernard and Rain, and the 
novel The Moon and Sixpence (all written in 1919). 

In The Moon and Sixpence Maugham’s love of that 
simple hfe in Tahiti comes out in spite of the fact that his 
subject matter compelled him to put a rein on that inclination. 
His main theme was the character of an inhuman artist and 
he could not let his attention wander much. But here and 
there his notion of a happy life is revealed in little pictures. 
With deep-seated feeling he gives a picture of the life Strickland’s 
son by Ata is living, in contrast to that of his civilized son : 

I saw him with my mind’s eye, on the schooner on which he worked, 
wearing irothing but a pair of dungarees ; and at night, when the boat sailed 
along easily before a light breeze, and the sailors were gathered on the upper 
deck, I saw him dance with another lad, dance wildly, to the wheezy music 
of the concertina. Above was the blue sky, and the stars, and all about the 
desert of the Pacific Ocean. 

In Rain he has given a picture of the artificial and 
arbitrary notions of civilized society gradually killing the 
happiness of the natives of the islands, who were quite ha]>py 
in the simple, peaceful Ufe they were leading. The militant 
Christian missionary Davidson wants to make the natives 
‘ civilized ’ and ‘ virtuous ’ according to his idea of virtue. 
He, and with him, his wife, shudder to think of the natural 
attire of the natives. Davidson takes severe steps to make 
the natives wear civilized clothes and to abolish their informal 
marriages. Maugham imparts the idea that these notions of 
civilization choke the natural flow of happiness in the natives. 
But here too, as in The Moon and Sixpence, Maugham has 



NITISH KUMAE BASU 


87 


dwelt on that by the way. His object mainly was to depict 
the bigoted and intolerant missionary Davidson. 

In The Fall of Edward Bernard, this disgust for the 
mechanical civilization and fascination for the simple life 
find their fullest expression. Edward Bernard echoes 
Maugham’s belief in the worthlessness of civilization in 
no uncertain terms : 

What is the use of all this hustle and this constant striving ? I 
think of Chicago now and I see a dark, grey city all stone — it is like a prison 
— and a ceaseless turmoil. And what does all that activity amount to ? 

When I am old, what have I to look forward to? To hurry from 

my home in the morning to my office and work hour after hour till night, 

and then hurry home again, and dine and go to a theatre? I want 

to make more of my life than that. 

And “ to make more of his life ” Edward Bernard has fled 
from “ the sick fatigue, the languid doubt ” of civilization 
just like the scholar gypsy of Matthew Arnold, and just like 
him, 

Came as most men deem’d to little good. 

Success, in the imagination of ordinary men, is the 
success, of which Bateman has a vision. 

Of the works of the Hunter Motor Traction and Automobile Com- 
pany growing in size and importance till they covered a hundred acres, and 
of the millions of motors they would turn out. 

Maugham knows that it is not there that happiness lies. He 
thought, at that time, that it lies in the kind of life Edward 
Bernard dreams of living : 

I shall build myself a house on my coral island and I shall live there 
looking after my trees — I shall grow all sorts of things in my garden, and I 
shall fish. There will be enough work to keep me busy and not enough to 
make me dull. I shall have ray books and Eva, children I hope, and above 
all the infinite variety of the sea and the sky, the freshness of the dawn and 

the beauty of the sunset, and the rich magnificence of the night When 

I am an old man I hope that I shall be able to look back on a happy, simple, 
peaceful life. 



88 * 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


We find here in a nutshell Maugham’s idea of how to make a 
beautiful pattern of life. 

Maugham in fact has been 8a3dng here almost the same 
thing that Ernest Dawson has preached in his poems, “ why 
run after shadows when the prize is here ?” Maugham has 
arrived at an idea which is more of the East than of the West. 
The Hindu sages have always followed the pattern of life 
that Maugham here pictures. The same idea occurs in Tagore. 
He also finds a perfect ideal fife in simplicity and quiet : 

C^nw, 

'GC^I C'St? 

Of c®T?i I 

*t1 «<tt? 

JTWffWif C»tW. 

— C*IC«r5?l C»f»f ^51 

[A free translation of it will be something like this : 

There is no tumult in the street, 

No noise in the mart ; 

O poet, in this place 

liaise your humble hut. 

Wash the dirt of your feet 
Put down your load, 

And tune your Sitar ; 

Leave further quest on the road. 

Sit here at ease 

When the day hears the call 

Beneath the starry* sky, 

In the land where ‘ I have found all. 



NITISH KTTMAB BASU 


8d 

Tagore, with his Eastern mind, has no need of “ further 
quest on the road ” ; but Maugham, with his typical restless 
Western mind, cannot remain satisfied with that ideal life for 
long. He has, of course, till recently, almost always taken 
the South Sea islands as his background ; but he has never 
abandoned himself to the charms of the islands anywhere else. 
In 1921, in his play The Circle, Teddie pictures his home in 
the Federated Malay States which inflames Elizabeth’s ima- 
gination and becomes a decisive factor in her problem whether 
to elope with Teddie or not. In Mackintosh, Red, The Pool 
and a few other stories he has touched on the attraction of 
that country. But we feel that the impression of the dazzling 
beauty of Tahiti is growing fainter and fainter, and from about 
1925, the date of the publication of The Painted Veil, we see 
him entirely preoccupied with characters ; he only gives a few 
business-like touches to create a background but it is so faint 
that we cannot recognise the land painted in The Fall of 
Edward Bernard. He has become completely free from the 
fancy that overpowered him when his intellect was softened by 
romantic imagination. 

It is not difficult to guess how this happened. As the 
impression on his mind became fainter as a result of the flight 
of time, and also when with the recovery of his health his 
mind became as vigorous as ever, Maugham gradually returned 
to his own pessimistic self. With the same disillusioned eyes, 
with which he rent the painted veil of life in civilized society, 
Maugham began to look into this dream-land of his. For 
a short time he had deceived himself by imagining that an 
ideal atmosphere produces ideal happiness, gives peace to the 
mind, which he was seeking. When he rends even that veil, 
he finds that sufferings and miseries reside there as weU as 
in civilized states. He pictures how the fatal attraction of 
the beauty of the place becomes indirectly responsible for the 
tragedy of Lawson. “ I was all over the place when I first 

12— 1246B.J- 



90 WILLIAM SOMBRSBT MAUGHAM 

■* 

came out,” Lawson says. ^ But after a few years of life there 
he wants to go back. He cannot do that because his wife, 
a native of the place and brought up amid the intoxicating 
beauty of the island, cannot live away from it. And 
Lawson deteriorates slowly but surely and at last commits 
suicide. The Force of Circumstance, Before the Party, The 
Outstation and many other stories deal with tragedies occurring 
amid the beautiful and peaceful surroundings of the South 
Sea Islands or the adjacent countries. One particular thing 
to be noticed is the fact that Maugham has produced many 
characters, at this stage, who are fed uj) with the beauty of 
the country just as he produced once a character like Edward 
Bernard who is completely wrapped up in the charm of the 
place. Lawson in The Pool wants to leave the place. Neilson 
in Red does the same. Gallagher in P. d' O. ‘‘ does not want 
to see the country or anyone in it ” again, Maugham has 
discovered that beauty too, like love, has its “ sad satiety.” 

Maugham, at this stage, has understood that peace of 
mind is the greatest thing, that on it de})ends ha])})iness, and 
that peace of mind is independent of the surroundings though 
they may helj) it. And from now' on we find him turning his 
eyes away from physical beauty and turning them inward. 
We find him looking for the beauty of the soul. 

Ill 

The Beauty of the Soul 

The attitude of a man towards life changes as his mind 
matures. But the phases of its change are not so individualised, 
so distinct from one another, as to fall into natural water-tight 
compartments. The phases overlap one another. There are 
always concurrent ideas in a mind, some getting stronger, 
some getting weaker and at last vanishing altogether in the 


^ Tfis Pool, The Trembling of a Leaf. 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


9i 

process of development. In the first stage, in spite of his 
unsettled mind, Maugham had a strong and clear-cut con- 
viction. But the difficulty begins from the time when he is 
seeking the means of escape from such a tormenting convic- 
tion. Many are the ways open before him ; and he tries 
them, not one at a time, but sometimes looks indecisively at 
two or three. The division into periods can only be made 
by taking the idea that is uppermost in his mind at the time 
under consideration. 

Even so long ago as the time when Maugham was 
obsessed with Tahiti, we find him having a peep into the beauty 
of a soul. Dirk Stroeve ^ is the picture of a beautiful soul. 
But he is a buffoon ; he has not the serene beauty of the souls 
Maugham painted later. 

In The, Moon and tSixjicnce the beautiful soul of Dirk 
Stroeve occupies only a fraction of the author’s mind. His 
main attention was fixed on something else. But in The 
Painted Veil (1925) we see a distinct change. In it Maugliam 
is entirely occupied with the soul. He pictures the mysterious 
and strangely beautiful soul of Walter, and more than that 
he is concerned with the development, the purification and 
the sublimation of the soul of Kitty. 

. Maugham, of course, has always held that no man is 
entirely bad, but he had, before this stage, always kept the 
balance pretty steady. But from now on he is more and more 
bringing out the angel in human beings. Ginger Ted, in The 
Vessel of Wrath, is converted into an angel at the end of the 
story. The Back of Beyond has a eharacter in Tom Saffary, 
who is a more normal Dirk Stroeve, unsuspecting, tender and 
forgiving. In Salvatore we find a character who possesses 
“ the rarest, most precious, and the loveliest of all qualities,” 
namely, goodness. ^ Neil Macadam ^ is another such pure 

^ The Moon and Sixpence, 

* Salvator e, Cosmopolitians, ; , 

• Neil Macadam, Ah King, 



92 


WILLIAM SOMEESET MAUGHAM 


soul. In Erik Christessen ^ we get a ripe fruit of this stage 
in Maugham’s mind. This tendency culminates in Sheppey. 
In that play, the angel is the hero too. In the short stories 
already mentioned, the beauty of the soul has been given very 
little space to develop, though they are heroes. But in Sheppey 
we find a character whose angelic soul fills the whole space. 
Whether this is due to the “ collective unconscious ” com- 
pletely getting the upper hand in Maugham (as R. H. Ward ^ 
suggests), is a vain speculation. We find that Maugham’s 
search for peace, leads him to the inner beauty of the soul and 
Sheppey is its culminating point. 

Maugham has found out that the purity and goodness 
of the soul produce happiness. Erik C'hristessen is happy in 
his ‘ Kingdom of Heaven, ’ which the ])urity of his soul hel})s 
to create in his own mind. Kitty of the last stage, when she 
is converted into a good and pure soul, finds no dissatisfac^tion 
with life. She says to her fatlier : 

I have hope and couraf'e. Tlie past is Hiiislied ; let the 

dead bury their dead. It’.s all nncert.ain, life and whatever i.s to eoiiK' to 
me, but I enter upon it with a light and buoyant heart.® 

Even Dirk Stroeve is very hap|)y not only before the tragedy 
occurs but also after it ; Maugham suggests that he will be 
happy, living among simple folk and leading a humble life ; l;iis 
purity of soul will give him peace. Sheppey, like Christessen, 
has created a ‘ Kingdom of Heaven ’ in his mind. The angelic 
characters of the short stories are all happy. 

^ The Narrow Corner (1932). 

^ “ here we liavo the collective uiicoiiHciouH, the spiritual plane from 

which inspiration arises, manifesting itself much more directly than anywhere else in 

his writings. The story of Sheppey is overtly a story of the spirit. It has not 

had its spiritual quality obscured by translation through thought symbols and word 
symbols, it has not become something else, a material reflection of the spiritual, but has 
remained spiritual throughout its translation from collective unconscious to papers. It 
has passed through the agents of its expression with remarkable purity.” B. H. Ward, 
W, tSomeraet Maugham. 

(It is to be rioted that Mr. Ward has used the phrase “ collective tmconsciout, ” 
not in the technical sense in which Dr, Jung has used it, but in a simplified sense,) 

* The Painted Veil. 



l^ITISH KUMAB BASU 


93 


Ginger Ted ^ had never been happy when he was lead, 
ing a devil’s life ; but he feels a new exultation when he turns 
a new leaf. In fact Maugham has understood the true sense 
of the proverb “ Virtue is its own reward. ” One who has a 
pure soul and does good to others, has the reward in the happi- 
ness that automatically comes to the good. One need not 
look to a life hereafter for the reward. “ You do good because 
it gives you pleasure. It is the purest form of happiness 
there is.” ^ The angels created before the production of The 
Narrow Corner have all been awarded material happiness ; 
Dirk Stroeve, Ginger Ted, Tom Saffary, Neil Macadam and 
others are all happy in their own way, at the end of the story. 
But it is different with Erik Christessen and Sheppey. Erik 
commits suicide and Sheppey turns mad and it may lead one 
to think that Maugham has gone back to the stage of Of Human 
Bomlatjv. lUit the very fact that these books are not steeped 
in a very tiagic atmosphere, is enough to dispel such a view. 

An isolated study of The Narrow Corner and Sheppey 
at once makes the reader cjuestion himself why, in spite of the 
sad ends, the atmosi^here is not sufficiently gloomy and tragic. 
For a powerful writer like Maugham, to fail to leave an im- 
press on the reader of the tragic note, to make him feel keenly 
for ‘the sufferings of such good people, is a little strange. One 
explanation of course is that Maugham does not produce such 
a tragic note because he is convinced that those pure souls, 
fortified with their purity and goodness, do not feel the misery 
as ordinary people ; and the author does not like to show a 
thing in a more tragic light than it really is. But perhaps the 
better explanation lies in the fact that, at this stage, he has 
found another avenue of escape from pessimism. He has 
conveniently taken the help of the philosohpy of Maya and 
that helps him to look at the miseries and sufferings of 
mankind with perfect equanimity. 

^ Vessel of Wraths Ah King, 

* The Back of Beyond, Ah King. 



94' WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHaM 

IV 

Peace At Last 

In his autobiography Maugham remarks that he has 
gathered one fact from his study of the philosophers, viz., that 
the philosophers first become convinced of one thing, irrespec- 
tive of the reasons, and then find out reasons to support 
the convictions that suit their particular ‘ humours.’ Maugham 
has hit upon a truth that fits himself like a glove. At the 
time of writing Of Human Bondage he was in a humour to 
believe in materialism and “ the physiological determinism 
that went with it,” ^ but when his restless mind was despairing 
of finding any lasting avenue of peace — he had already been 
disillusioned about Tahiti and all that it represents — he came 
to be in a ‘ humour ’ to be infiuenced by the Hindu philosophy 
of Maya. 

It is very difiicult to say exactly froni when he has Ijcen 
under the inliuence of this philosophy. K\^en so far bac-k as 
in The Magician (1908) we have a trace of such an idea. He 
makes Haddo say : 

What else is the world than a figure ? Life itself is but a symbol. 
You must be a wise man if you can tell us what is reality. 

But apparently Maugham did not mean it seriously. It is 
still nothing but a charlatan’s nonsense. It takes a long time 
for such a philosophy to get a hold on the materialistic- 
minded Englishman. In fact we do not see it in a well-formed 
state till 1932, the year of the publication of The Narrow 
Corner. Here we first see this philosophy mixed up with his 
attraction for good souls. We have already seen that it 
helps him to look with equanimity at the tragic end of such 
good people Uke Erik Christessen and Sheppey. 

Vp . ; 



NmSH KTTMAB BASTT 


95 


Maugham expresses this philosophy through the mouth 
of Dr. Saunders. He is another projection of Maugham him- 
self and acts to some extent as his mouthpiece as Philip did 
at one time. Dr. Saunders tries to console Fred, when he is 
mad with grief, with the idea that the world is an illusion,, 
echoing the theory of Maya in Indian Philosophy : 

The world consists of me and my thoughts and my feelings 

Life is a dream in which I create the objects that come before me. Every- 
thing knowable, every object of experience, is an idea in my mind, and with- 
out my mind it does not exist. Then there is no possibility and no necessity 
to postulate anything outside myself. Dream and reality are one. Life is 
a connected and consistent dream, and when I cease to dream, the world 
with its beauty, its pain and sorrow, its unimaginable variety, will cease to 
be. 

It is the essence of the Hindu philosophy of Maya, “ the 
illusion of the phenomenal world,” which Frith ^ finds “ to 
be the only religion that a reasonable man can accept with- 
out mi.sgiving.” That opinion of Frith is the opinion of 
Somerset Maugham at this stage. He is in a humour to be- 
lieve that the world is a dream and he accepts the reasonings 
offered by the philosophers who held such a view. 

When we examine Theatre, which was written later 
at the back of the mocking vein, in which it is written, we 
find* the influence of such a philosophy. From his philosophic 
height Maugham looks at his characters with the contentment 
arising out of the thought that the creatures of the real world, 
on whom he has modelled his creations, are all dream figures. 
Therefore, he can see things in their comic aspects ; a few 
touches are given here and there and the incidents which in 
1915 would have looked to him pathetic and painful — the 
miseries arising out of the affairs of the heart — become extremely 
comic. We cannot doubt that, if Julia® had been created 
at the same time as Of Human Bondage, she would have been 



96, WILLIAM SOMEESBT MATTGHAM 

made a tragic figure with her passion for Tom, and her morti- 
fication at her lover’s coldness and unfaithfulness would have 
been as feelingly painted as that of PhiMp. But the time 
has changed and now Maugham, fortified with his new philo- 
sophy, is not touched in the same way by human suffering as 
before ; what is touched in him now by it, is his sense of 
humour. Apparently Maugham has got at last what he wanted 
— peace and contentment. 


V 

The Yearning for 'the Faith Lost 

One expects, from a man who is convinced that the 
world is a dream of one’s own creation, a certain ironical 
smile at the faith of those who believe in God and the Here- 
after. We could have expected Maugham to make the nuns 
in the convent, ^ who belicv'e in God and a reward after death, 
ridiculous. He mocks their ceremonies — we can feel that 
but that is all. Why is it so ? A l)it of conversation 
between Kitty and Waddington gives the answer. Kitty 
says : 

Supposing there is no life everlasting ? Think what it means 
if death is really the end of all things. They have given up all for nothing. 
They have been cheated. They’re dupes. 

Waddington, after some reflection, answers : 

I wonder. I wonder if it matters that what they have aimed at 
is illusion. Their lives are in themselves beautiful. I have an idea that 
the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in with- 
out disgust, is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. 
The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and 
the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life 
that is the perfect work of art. 


^ Tht Paints VeiL 



NITISH KTTMAB BASXT 


97 


Maugham has found that these nuns, guided by undisturbed 
faith, have succeeded in making a beautiful pattern in life 
for which he has been seeking. These nuns, he has found, 
have one advantage over him ; their faith makes, it easier 
for them to get that happiness, whereas it is difficult (and 
we shall see later that it has been impossible) for Maugham to 
attain that through the intellect. It may be objected that, 
at the time of writing this book, Maugham had not come 
under the influence of the Maya philosophy and that is why 
he looks with admiration and with a yearning in his heart 
for that faith which can give peace and happiness ; or in other 
words, that this yearning is a temporary one and must have 
vanished with his growing conviction that the world is a dream. 
If it be so, then why does he picture Ginger Ted ^ feeling happy 
when he has that faith ? Ginger is happy to find that “ there 
is something in it (Christianity) after all ” — and The Vessel 
of Wrath was written in 1930. Even if that is too early for him 
to have come under the influence of the Maya philosophy, 
what about Sheppey (1933) ? At least Sheppey was produced 
after his conviction of the world’s unreality. That drama, 
we feel, was written with the same yearning in his heart of hearts 
for the faith, which we saw first in The Painted Veil ; Sheppey 
feels exultation when he comes to feel in his heart hke a true 
Christian with an immense faith. 

This yearning for faith does not mean that he yearns 
for the faith in Christianity — the illustrations given above 
may lead to such a mistaken idea. It is not that. Maugham 
yearns for any faith that gives one happiness. He yearns 
for the faith which the Jap diver in The Narrow Corner feels ; 

For the Jap, lying there, dying there painlessly, it was not the 

end but the turning over a page ; he knew that he was slipping from 

one life to another. Karrm, the deeds of this as of other lives he had passed, 
would be somehow continued ; and perhaps, in his exhaustion, the only 
motion that remained to him was curiosity ; anxious he might be or amused, 
to know in what condition he would be reborn. 

^ The Vessel of Wrath, 

13— 1245B.J. 



m WILLIAM SOMSSSST MAUGHAM 

The Jap believing in Karma dies with equanimity. He knows 
that “ somehow his life will be continued ” ; it would have 
saved Maugham much unhappiness if only he could have such 
a faith. Maugham knows that. When we probe deeper into 
the cause of such yearning, we cannot but come to a rather 
unhappy conclusion. 


VI 

The Final Stage 

The last section naturally leads us to the question, 
“ Why does Maugham yearn after faith, even though he has 
attained the peace of mind through his philosophy ?” It 
arouses one suspicion in our minds, that this philosophic calm 
is also a passing phase like the other phases we have examined 
— at least it makes us doubt the firmness of Maugham’s faith 
in his philosophy. 

Maugham belongs to the race of men which produced 
a Dr. Johnson who asked people to hit their heads on the wall 
to convince themselves of the reality of this world, and it is 
difficult for a man belonging to such a race of practical men 
to believe in a philosophy like that of Maya. The advocates 
of that philosophy, moreover, had at least faith in one thing 
— ^in one Absolute, in relation to which all other things are 
unreal. But Maugham having no faith in the essential basis 
of that philosophy, namely, the Absolute, has his ground cut 
away from beneath him.^ He tried to make a practical 
use of that plilosophy, and naturally this self- hypnotism could 
not be carried very far. He cannot, with his whole soul, 
take such a philosophy as the truth. “ If life is too painful 
one must have the courage to leave the world,” he says at 
one place ^ ; such an advice cannot come from a man who 

* One Bui^ects that the smattering of that philosophy was acquired from a 
study of Outlines of Hindu Philosophy by Srinivasa Iyengar, mentioned in The Narroxo 
Comer, 


■ The Summing Up, 



KrriSlt KTTMAB BASIT 


takes pain as only part of a fiction created by one’s own mind 
in conjunction with the senses, without which that suffering 
does not exist. 

Every school of philosophy takes something as given; 
as fundamental axiomatic truth ; but the difficulty with 
Maugham is that he cannot swallow that “ given” quantity. 
Nothing, therefore, satisfies him. He set to build up a con- 
sistent and reasonable philosophy of his own. “ I knew very 
well,” he says, “ that I had no gift for metaphysical specula- 
tion. I meant to take from here and there theories that satis- 
fied not only my mind, but what I could not but think more 
important than my mind, the whole body of my instincts* 
feelings and deep-rooted prejudices, the prejudices that are 
so intimate a part of one that they can hardly be distinguished 
from instincts ; and out of them make a system that would 
be valid for me and enable me to pursue the course of my 
life.” 1 And the part of Maya philosophy which regards the 
world as a personal illusion came in very handy to build up the 
philosophy suited to his mind. But one fears that it has 
only become a mental pose with Maugham. It has not cured 
him completely of his inborn restlessness ; he still has a yearn- 
ing for the peace which other people get through faith ; we could 
not have found that trace of envy and regret if he were him- 
self happy and completely at peace with the world. 

But the first impression that his latest novels impart 
to the reader is, however, that of peace and contentment. He 
seems apparently to have managed to escape from the tor- 
menting thoughts that have so long pursued him. What he 
has done really is that he has averted his eyes from human 
sufferings. This Maya philosophy seems to have done one, 
t hing at least ; he may not believe in that philosophy but, 
there is no doubt that it has shaken his belief in the reality, 
of the sufferings which he sees around him. And it will not. 


* r*e Summimg Vp. 



loo . WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

be perhaps too far-fetched, if we suspect that the real condi- 
tion of his mind is a state of happy blankness arising out of 
exhaustion. He does not like to think of that problem any 
more ; he likes to cling to the philosophy of illusion as long 
as he can : 

“ You’ve lost heart, hope, faith and awe. What in God’s name 
have got left ?” asks Fred Blake. “ Resignation,” answers Dr. Saunders. ^ 

Maugham has attained that resignation — perhaps out of 
despair — ^yet, for practical purposes, it serves as well as any 
other kind of resignation ; it has given him peace. But the 
question which naturally comes to our mind, when we find 
the signs of his intellectual restlessness, is “ How long is this 
resignation to last ?” 

VII 

A Formula for Happiness 

Somerset Maugham belongs to a race of practical men 
and we have seen that this fact is the cause of his weak faith 
in the philosophy of Maya. And yet we have seen that such 
a philosophy has given him some peace ; it has helped him 
to condition his mind to the sufferings of people, from the 
pain of which he has averted his eyes but the humour of which 
he can quite perceive. From the practical point of view he 
has escaped from the pessimism which has so long tormented 
him. 

He has attained peace of mind but being a practical 
man he knows that ordinary people cannot attain that in the 
way he has done ; they cannot be happy by seeing good souls 
happy, neither can they swallow the idea that the world is 
a piece of unreality. To actors on this world’s stage, the 
world with its sufferings, disappointments and miseries is 
a hard piece of reality. For them, Maugham has shown 
some practical ways of mitigating their sufferings. He has 
not sermonised. He has only suggested some practical methods. 

^ The Narrow Comer, 



NITISH KUMAB BASU 


101 


It did not take him long to come to the conclusion 
that “ nature is hostile.” Man must suffer ; that cannot 
be helped. But Maugham has found out that there is such 
a thing as self-inflicted suffering and this he tries to point out 
to his foolish fellow creatures. He, unlike Chekov, is not 
preoccupied with the hostile ways of a Superior Force but 
is more concerned with the ways of men. 

“Is it not pitiful that men, tarrying so short a space 
in a world where there is so much pain, should thus torture 
themselves ?” ^ He has found out that “ with a certain humour 
and good deal of horse -sense one can make a fairly good 
job of what is after all a matter of small consequence.” ^ 
Maugham finds that men who should be expected to take up 
this attitude of making the best of a bad bargain, fail to use 
that “ horse-sense ” and only find some means to torture 
themselves. 

He set himself to find out those essentially artificial 
and worthless notion, the conventions and fixed ideas in 
which men have steeped themselves and without which they 
could have been much happier. One of such notions is reli- 
gion. In Rain Maugham has pointed out how far sueh reli- 
gious mania can go ; Davidson, the missionary, by his religious 
zeal, and an entirely misdirected zeal at that, manages to rob 
the simple natives of their joy of living a care-free fife. 

There are other more contemptible attitudes for which 
Maugham cannot but feel some disgust. Men have formed 
some notions about gentlemanliness which are, as Maugham 
shows, absolutely ludicrous. Mr. Wurburton in The Oid- 
station insists on dressing properly even when he dines alone. 
Mr. Gruyter in The Vessel of Wrath dines with more relish 
though he does not follow Mr. Wurburton’s idea of gentle 
breeding. This kind of snobbishness, however, is quite harm- 
less ; but Maugham knows how far this can go. He shows 

^ Kitty, The Painted Veil, 

* Dr. Saunders, The Narrow Corner* 



lOS^ William Somerset MaughaM 

that in The Alien Corn where the struggle between George’s 
tendency to live in natural manner and his father’s idea of 
behaving like an “ English Gentlemen ” leads to much un- 
happiness and ultimately to George’s suicide. 

With these worthless ideas, the fruits of a civilization 
going the wrong way, Maugham has no patience. He expresses 
the same thing as Oscar Wilde’s Hester Worsley does in A 
Woman of No Importance : 

You shut out of your society the gentle and the good. You laugh 
at the simple and the pure You have lost life’s secret. 

Maugham suggests that to be happy one needs to find out 
this ‘ life’s secret.’ And every thinking man cannot but agree 
with Maugham in this respect. But it is difficult to swallow 
Maugham’s conclusion about love and the efficacy of fidelity. 

He has found out from his own experience how much 
pain passion can bring to human beings. He passes over 
that lightly in The Summing Up where he speaks of “ a young 
attractive person ” for whom he had to scrape up as much 
money as he could lay hands on ; he had to stoop to writing pot- 
boilers even. He makes Philip ^ pass through a similar ex- 
perience in his love for Mildred ; the poignancy of that is 
so successfully conveyed to the reader that it leaves one in 
no doubt of its personal character. He shows the disa’ster 
which passion brings in innumerable places. Blanche Stroeve 
commits suicide when Strickland leaves her. ^ Kitty and 
Walter in The Painted Veil are consumed with its fire, Chandra- 
lal in the short story Giulia Lazzari ® has to give up his com- 
fortable refuge and commits suicide because he cannot check 
his love for Giulia Lazzari. Mrs. Crosbie in The Letter * 
murders her lover when she finds him cold and unfaithful. In 
Neil Macadam Darya’s passion for Neil results in her losing her 

1 Of Human Bondage, 

* The Moon and Sixpence. 

* Ashenden, 

* Altogether, 



NITISH KTJMAB BASU 


103 


life in the jungle. Maugham pictures how ugly passion can 
become, in The Narrow Corner, where Mrs. Hudson’s passionate 
attachment to Fred Blake makes her plot with devilish cunning 
the murder of her husband by Fred. These are only a few 
of the most outstanding instances. Maugham has shown 
even in his first novel the doings of love, “ the dirty trick 
nature has played upon man ” ^ ; and we rarely get any novel 
or short story or play written by him in which we do not find 
some trace or other of the pain caused by love. Maugham, 
however, knows from personal experience that in this matter 
men and women cannot help themselves ; he feels sympathy 
for the characters who are in love’s throes. But he knows, 
from personal experience again, that this consuming passion 
does not last. “ When you fall in love at twenty you think 
your love will last for ever, but at fifty you know so much, 
about life and about love, and you know that it will last 
so short a time,” says Mr. Hamlyn.^ Roger in Theatre finds 
that “ love is not worth all the fuss they make about it.” 
Maugham therefore gives the advice to take it easy. He 
advocates the policy of taking love as a pleasant thing, like 
an article of luxury to spice our life, and not too seriously. 
After all nothing really matters in this world of make-believe. 
Mrs. Nesbit in Of Human Bondage is the first product, though 
an immature one, of such a view. The mature products are 
Rosie Driffield in Cakes and Ale (1930) and Julia in Theatre 
(1937). To Rosie friends mean lovers. The narrator once 
feels the pain of jealousy on account of her other lovers. 

“ What harm does it to you ? Don’t I give you a good time ! Aren’t 
you happy when you are with me ? ” Rosie asks. 

“ Awfully, ” he answers. 

“ Well then. It’s so silly to be fussy and jealous. Why not be 
happy with what you can get ? Enjoy yourself while you have the chance, 


^ The Summing Up, 

* JP. 4? O., Altogether, 



104 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


I say ; we shall be dead in a hundred years and what will anything matter 
then ? Let’s have a good time while we can.” 

And Ashenden understands that there is no use inviting pain. 
Rosie may be mistaken for a street woman and Ashenden’s 
defence of that ‘ sweet ’ woman, as he calls her, is a bit hard 
to accept, but it is quite consistent with Maugham’s opinion 
as to the way of making life comfortable. Ashenden, the 
narrator, says : 

She was a simple woman. Her instincts were healthy and ingenuous. 

She loved to make people happy. She loved love She was naturally 

affectionate. When she liked anyone it was quite natural for her to go 
to bod with him. She never thought twice about it. It was not vice ; 
it was not lasciviousness ; it was her nature. She gave herself as naturally 
as the Sun gives heat or the flowers their perfume. It had no effect on her 
character ; she remained sincere, unspoiled and artless.^ 

Maugham in fact condemns passion but wisely enough supports 
instinct, which can only make life pleasant and does not make 
it burdensome as passionate love does. Luise Frith in The 
Narroiv Corner does not suffer very much when Fred leaves 
her because in her case it is instinct and not passionate love 
as Dr. Saunders shrewdly guesses. Julia in Theatre heaves 
a sigh of relief and laughs over the whole affair when she 
manages to escape from her passion for Tom. We may g(p,y 
that Maugham approves (unlike Aldous Huxley) the state 
of love in the world which Huxley paints satirically in Brave 
New World. 

Maugham is not blind to the fact that in a case of love, 
sometimes not only is unhappiness caused to the lovers by 
their own passion, but more pain is added to their lot by other 
people, who also suffer because they have not tolerance. “ A 
little tolerance, a little good humour and you do not know 
how comfortable you can make yourself on this planet.” ^ 
People indeed do not know how much comfort can tolerance 

^ Cakes and Ale, 

* Dr, Saunders, The Narrow Corner, 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 


106 


bring. Dirk Stroeve in The Moon and Sixpence knows the 
value of tolerance ; he wants to take his wife back if she 
consents. But Dirk Stroeve is much above ordinary men. 
Most people are of the opposite nature ; normal men are hke 
Mr. Crosbie of The Letter, most women are like Doris of The 
Force of Circumstance — they cannot take the past infidelity 
of their mates in a tolerant spirit. Maugham shows that if 
they could — and it would have been possible if they had not 
in their minds the fixed idea about some arbitrary rules of 
conduct, summed up in the word “ virtue ” — they would have 
had happiness. Mr. Crosbie certainly could not have found 
any further complaint to make against his wife if he only could 
take a lenient attitude towards her past attachment to Geoffrey 
Hammond. Doris would have found in Guy a perfectly faith- 
ful husband if she could only bring herself to sympathise with 
the fear of loneliness that had driven her husband to live with 
another woman, a native of the place. Indeed a little tolerance 
on the part of those who thought themselves the ‘ injured ’ 
parties, according to the notions of civilized society, would have 
saved them much suffering. As Maugham remarks in The Alien 
Corn, “ It is strange that men, inhabitants for so short a while 
of an alien and inhuman world, should go out of the way to 
cause themselves so much unhappiness.” George Moon in 
The Back of Beyond advises Tom Saffary to take a tolerant 
view of his wife’s love affair with Knobby ; he was dead and 
there was no possibihty of that to recur again. Tom takes 
Moon’s advice to take his wife back and we are left in no doubt 
about the fact that their future life is going to be peaceful. 
In P. dc 0., Mrs. Hamlyn comes to forgive her husband and 
is ready to take him back. Maugham does not hesitate to 
push his view to its logical conclusion. Peaceful happiness 
is his aim ; for that he condemns people who cannot take a 
tolerant view ; he even implies that for the sake of happiness 
one should have no scruple in becoming less virtuous — in this 
world of make-believe a little lying or concealment of so-called 


14— 1245B.J. 



106 . WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

sin, for the good cause of peace, does not do any harm when 
very hkely the contrary attitude may shatter some happy 
life. As the narrator says in Virtue : 

Virtue be damned. A virtue that only causes havoc and unhappi- 
ness is worth nothing. 

If Margery in that story had been less virtuous and had a 
secret alfair with Morton, it would have passed like a passing 
fancy and the Trappy household would not have been broken. 
But she remains virtuous and reveals to her husband the state 
of affairs, which results in an unbearable mental suffering 
for her husband who is passionately in love with her, till at 
last he is driven to commit suicide. ^ Maugham has made 
the Eternal say in The J udgment Seat ^ : 

1 have often wondered why men think I attach so much importance 
to sexual irregularity. If they read my works more attentively they would 
see that I have always been sympathetic to that particular form of human 
frailty. 

By 1930 Maugham has become quite definite in his 
attitude towards what is known as virtue and towards sexual 
infidelity. The story Virtue^ was written aboiit 1929, The 
Back of Beyond * in the same period ; so also was The Vessel 
of Wrath. ® In the last-mentioned story he paints a picture 
of tolerance in Miss Jones who feels no scruple in her mind 
to marry a reformed reprobate and as such she offers a con- 
trast to Doris of The Force of Circumstance, who cannot forgive 
her husband though he is a saint in comparison to Ginger Ted. 
In Cakes and Ale (1930) Maugham very clearly points out the 
greater efficacy of tolerance. Edward Driffield knows all 
along that his wife is deceiving him ; but he does not care ; 
he knows with Ashenden that Rosie is “ like a clear deep pool 
in the forest glade into which it’s heavenly to plunge, but it 

^ Virtue t First Person Singular, 

2 Cosmopolitans, 

® First Person Singular^, 

* Ah King, 

nbid. 



NITISH KUMAR BASU 107 

is neither less cool nor less crystalline because a tramp and a 
gypsy and a gamekeeper have plunged into it before you.” 
He is not jealous because he is very happy with Rosie and he 
does not mind if other people also partake of that happiness ; 
that does not lessen his. He becomes almost mad with grief 
when Rosie leaves him. 

Whether or not we agree with his unconventional conclu- 
sion about love and sexual fidelity, matters little. What matters 
is, that he has given a possible solution of marital troubles. 
At present it is of course almost an impracticable one. The 
wisdom of Edward Driffield is not a common one. Still we 
can see signs (in revolutionised Russia for example) to prove 
that Maugham’s conclusions are not exactly insane ones. 
Whether they are immoral or whether there can be as much 
happiness as Maugham thinks is bound to be, if the world 
comes to take that view, is difficult to guess. But it must 
be pointed out that Maugham does not exactly say that one 
can get more happiness by following his advice than in passionate 
love and fidelity ; what he says is, that there are less chances 
of unhappiness if people can condition their minds to think 
hke him. 

He arrived at such conclusions with one thing in view, 
V2*z., how to be happy, and his doctrine, in the main, resembles 
the doctrine “ Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you die.” 
Rosie says the same thing when she advises Ashenden to take 
whatever pleasure comes in his way, for “ we shall all be dead 
in a hundred years.” 


“ I who thought I could never be in love again, of course it can’t 
last. Why shouldn’t I get what fun out of it I can ?, ” says Julia in Theatre. 


This essentially Hedonistic attitude has been exhibited over 
and over again by many characters in Maugham’s works but 
there is a subtle difference between Maugham’s attitude and 



108 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

that of the Hedonists. The Hedonists ^ advocated the philo- 
sophy of taking whatever joy comes in one’s way, but Maugham 
modifies it with his racial prudence. He knows that wine does 
not give happiness, neither can it give forgetfulness for which 
the Hedonists like it ; it cannot give the peace of mind he 
is seeking. Charles in Virtue takes the help of wine to forget 
his miseries but Maugham shows that this cannot be done. 
Maugham does not like that momentary happiness which is 
followed by intense pain. That is why he condemns love, 
as it is understood. Love, he knows, is able to give intense 
happiness but there is always the. risk of an unbearable pain 
with it. He has shown how love gives heavenly bliss to Lraa, 
Bertha Craddock, Philip Carey, and innumerable other charac- 
ters, but he has shown, in greater relief, what unbearable pain 
it may bring. “ It is better to have loved and lost than never 
to have loved at all,” says Tennyson ; to Maugham it is mere 
foolishness. It is not worth the trouble of taking the risk 
of so much pain. He likes happiness enough and wherever he 
can find it, but he prefers to go without that happiness if 
it has much pain glued to it. In fact he is a Hedonist but a 
sane and discriminating Hedonist. 


^ Arietippua and hia Foltowera, The Cyfanaita. 



CHAPTER VIII 
The Summing Up 

It is a far cry from Liza of Lambeth to Theatre and the 
author may well look back with a sigh of satisfaction. It 
has been said of Conrad that “ he seems to have sprung just 
as Minerva sprang, straight from Jove’s head full armed and 
full equipped ” ; this cannot be said of Maugham — in his 
case it has been a gradual development. 

When Maugham wrote his first novel he was hailed as 
a rising star, but he had yet to find himself ; he was not yet a 
master of creative art. After reading Liza of Lambeth Arthur 
Jones remarked to a friend of his that the author should become 
a successful dramatist ^ and the author too for a time thought 
that his talent was in the way of play writing. Liza of Lambeth 
is an immature production ; it, however, reveals the author’s 
keen power of observation. The next four of five novels are 
mere experiments, some in form as, say. The Merry-go-rourvd, 
and some in subject matter as The Making of a Saint. Maugham 
was not yet seriously thinking of becoming a novehst ; he was 
trying his best to be a successful dramatist. Still in some 
way or other these novels show his development. 

At the time of writing Liza of Lambeth he did not know 
his limitations and defects. He had later the criticism of 
his first novel to guide him and he certainly profited by that. 
Maugham’s second experiment. The Making of a Saint, deserves 
no more attention than a passing mention as an experiment 
in the historical novel. But the next two novels, Mrs. Craddock 
and The Hero, deserve more attention as showing distinct 
advance. In Liza of Lambeth no doubt we have a story, but 
it is more of a photograph of the life of the slums than a story. 


^ Mentioned in The Summing Up, 



ilO WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

There is really very little of the conflict which we see in 
Maugham’s later novels. That we get in Mrs. Craddock and The 
Hero. In Mrs. Craddock we have a theme, Bertha Craddock’s 
passion for Edward and the disillusioned love turning her into 
a shrew. The same thing can be said of The Hero. From 
that point of view Maugham has made a distinct advance 
towards finding himself. It is nothing but vain pedagogy 
to try to judge between merits of a photographic realist (as 
Maugham in his first novel was) and that of a master in the 
art of story-telling (which Maugham became in his subsequent 
works). There is no use going into the question whether the 
capacity for story-telling is greater than the talent of a photo- 
graphic artist or just the opposite. What is meant here by 
‘ advance ’ is that Maugham, while trying to find where his 
particular talent lies, has found something. If he had remained 
a slum novelist or rather the crass reahst of his early days, 
he might have made improvements on his photographic talents 
seen in Liza of Lambeth but his real talent lay elsewhere, where 
his capacity for photographic realism is an asset as a sub- 
ordinate factor but not as a principal. 

The two books mentioned show an advance no doubt 
but they fare badly indeed in comparison with Maugham’s 
mature works ; they are not written in the well-knit manner 
which we identify with Maugham ; there is much that would 
have been better to leave out as unnecessary. And the same 
can be said of the next four novels, The Explorer, The Merry- 
go-round, The Bishop's Apron and The Magician. One cannot 
but agree with Mr. Ward, when he says that after Mrs. Craddock 
and The Hero “ the progress of Somerset Maugham as a novelist 
sufiers a check and does not reappear until 1915 , more than 
a, dozen years later ^ : indeed the four novels written in 

jetween are nothing but pot-boilers. The Merry-go-round has 
at least one merit that it is an experiment in form but that 


^ R, H. Ward, W. Somerset Maitgham, 



NITISH KUMAE BASU 


111 


cannot* be said of the other three, specially The Magician. 
In the last-mentioned book Maugham deliberately catered 
to the vulgar taste for sensationalism ; he wanted money, 
to put it crudely, and he made it. He committed what is 
called by Mr. Ward “ a dishonest mistake ” and “ a sin against 
inspiration.” At the end of 1908 we find Maugham no better 
than a writer of pot-boilers. 

For six years after that, Somerset Maugham disappeared 
as a novelist. His plays were bringing him fame and money 
but his real genius lay concealed. Apparently this period 
was barren as far as novels are concerned, but it was not so. 
Something was troubling him ; the memories of his past life 
were making him restless and, as he tells us in his autobio- 
graphy, he felt that he had to put them on paper or he would 
have no peace of mind, and he did ; the result was a crude 
form of Of Human Bondage. This was nothing but inspiration. 
So long his novels were lacking that essential factor ; their 
faults seem so glaring because they were written iminspired ; 
Of Human Bondage is Maugham’s first inspired novel. But 
when first this inspiration came, Maugham was unable to 
utilise it ; his sporadic attempts at writing novels had not 
made him such a master of the art as to enable him to do 
justice to such an inspiration. No wonder his first attempt 
was crude ; and he rewrote it in 1915 and has given us the 
monumental work Of Human Bondage. 

Of Human Bondage was written under the spell of an 
inspiration and naturally it has recorded in full the working 
of the author’s mind with its cravings and passions, as none 
of the books preceding it had done ; it reveals the pessimistic 
state of Maugham’s mind which was destined to undergo many 
transformations with maturity. With this book really 
Maugham’s career as a novelist begins. He finds out what 
he is capable of and gradually after a few experiments perfects 
his material and style. In Of Human Bondage we find him 
blessed with inspiration but the mechanical dexterity comes 



112 


WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 


later. His next novel, The Moon and Sixpence, is an Experi- 
ment in form which he perfects later on. There he gives the 
impression of being at home ; there is a certain sense of free- 
dom of movement, fluidity which we do not see even in Of 
Human Bondage. Moreover, in this book he makes a success- 
ful experiment with time-shift and the first person singular. 
Two other things we notice in this book. Firstly, Maugham’s 
fascination for simple life amid beautiful surroundings which 
develops into the somewhat Utopian conception of an ideal 
life in the short story, The Fall of Edward Bernard ; secondly, 
the opening of Maugham’s eyes to the possibility of the 
infinite beauty of soul, the first fruit of which we get in the 
character of Dirk Stroeve in this book and which matures 
later in characters like Erik Christessen and Sheppey. In 
this book we have the first indication that the pessimistic 
attitude of Maugham — his feeling about a cruel and eallous 
Superior Force ruling man’s life — has given place to an atti- 
tude of accex>tanoe and tolerance ; from now he tries to find 
out the means to make the best of a bad bargain. 

His next novel. The Painted Veil, shows him a master 
of his art. The technical devices he has perfected and in the 
well-knit story we never get the impression of the chapter 
being disjointed episodes somehow linked together, as we 
get to a certain extent in The Moon and Sixpence. In the 
latter book the story interest in places slackens due to the 
insertion of too much of the narrator’s opinions in the style 
of a biographer. This never happens again. Even in The 
Calces and Ale where we get such personal comments to a 
perceptible extent, the fascinating style of the author prevents 
that from being exasperating ; but in The Moon and Sixpence 
the author is not yet so fascinating ; he is not yet so much 
at ease with this form of literary art which he has so recently 
taken up seriously. " 

Mr. R. H. Ward remarks, “ The importance of The 
Painted Veil, otherwise a not very important book, lies in this 



NITISH KtTMAR BASU 


113 


that it^is the first instance of Mr. Maugham openly shbtring 
himself on the side of the angels.” ^ This is only half truth ; 
the real importance lies in its first showing that Maugham.^ 
is at last the master of his art. It no doubt shows one stage 
in the development of the author’s mind, viz., his fascination 
for the beauty of the soul, but this is only a small factor^* It 
only affected the nature of his character drawings The 
bent of a novelist’s philosophy or the peculiarity of his ideas 
is not the greatest consideration in judging his art. It is 
the impression of throbbing life that matters ; and there are 
two things that blend together to give that impression, the 
people in the novel and the form or suitability of construction. 
In character drawing Maugham had long ago proved himself 
to be a master, but the other factor he had not mastered 
before. It was not unnatural ; Aristotle noticed long ago that 
“ beginners succeed earlier with the Diction and Characters 
than with the construction of a story,” and what he said of one 
form of literary art is applicable to novels and short stories 
too. 

Once a master of the form and technique, Maugham 
never loses his mastery as all his later novels prove ; they 
show the mastery of the greatest art, the art of concealing the 
artifices. Not only does he progress from the point of view 
of technique but from Oj Human Bondage to Thecdre, his 
latest ^ novel, we find his mind maturing, his views getting 
crystallised, his rebelling intellect gradually becoming 
reconciled to life which he had hitherto felt to be a hopeless 
muddle. And in his last novel he is so successful in detaching 
his mind from the sufferings of people that he can see fun in 
what is tragic to us. Side by side with this change of attitude 
towards life we find a subtle change in the world of Somerset 
Maugham. When he has liberated himself from the obsession, 

^ R. S. Ward, W» Somerset Maugham, 

® Not considering Christmas Holiday which was published after this thesis 
was written. 


15— 1246B.J. 



114 WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM 

the idea of a cruel fate ruling human life irrationally^ he has 
time to enjoy what is good in this world. He seeks refuge 
an the good and the beautiful to shake off the rebellious thoughts 
that have only made him miserable. For a time he is attracted 
by a sort of materialised Utopia in Tahiti. Then he seeks 
something more permanent and finds that men with pure 
souls are the only beings that are happy. They are more 
sure of happiness than people living in a paradise on earth. 
That paradise on earth may be shattered but the real paradise 
in soul is beyond the reach of the miseries and sufferings of 
everyday life.. This mature conception explains the interest 
he takes in the angelic characters which we find in most of 
the novels written between 191^ and 1933 and many of the 
short stories and plays of the period. He has not yet been 
able to look at life in a detached manner. He still feels strongly 
'or suffering humanity and the angelic characters only give 
him some consolation that some people at least are happy 
in spite of cruel destiny or rather it is possible to be happy 
even on this earth. In Theatre, however, it seems that he has 
at last been able to force himself into detachment and, just 
as to Bergson, even tragedy appears to him comic. Naturally 
he, to whom the whole of life appears to be a long laugh, needs 
10 stimulating thought of the beauty of the souls to keep 
lis spirits up now. It is indeed rather fascinating to follow 
':he intricate and subtle turnings of the mind of Somerset 
idaugham, concealed under the “ skilful and unbridled art ” ^ 
if one of the greatest story-tellers of modem times. 

Whether Maugham has yet to write his masterpiece 
ir not, is a vain speculation, but it is certain that he is yet to 
:each the zenith of his reputation. His reading public is 
lot exactly the reading public of, say, Jane Austen. “ When 
. take up one of Jane Austen’s books such as Pride and Pre- 
'vdice” says Mark Twain, “ I feel like a bar-keeper entering 


^ Ano-tole France, Life and Letters, 



NinSH KTTMAB BASF 


115 


the liingdom of heaven.” ^ With those who seek such edifying 
atmosphere Maugham has no chance ; but those who 
to find how complex is human character, how infinit^ite 
varieties, will find what they seek in the throbbing life depicl^^*' 


in Maugham’s books. 


^ Quoted in The Fiction and the Reading Public, by Q. D. Leavis. 



APPENDIX 


A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE NOVELS BY WILLIAM SOMERSET 
MAUGHAM WITH THEIR DATES OF PUBLICATION 

Liza of Lambteth. 1897. A novel. 

The Making of a Saint. 1898. A novel. 

Orientations. 1899. Short stories. 

The Hero. 1901. A novel. 

Mrs. Craddock. 1902. A novel. • 

The Merry-go-roiind. 1904. A novel. 

The Bishop’s Apron. 1906. A novel. 

The Explorer. 1907. A novel. 

The Magician. 1908. A novel. 

Of Human Bondage. 1915. A novel. 

The Moon and Sixpence. 1919. A novel. 

The Trembling of a Leaf. 1921. Short stoi 
The Painted Veil. 1925. A novel. 

The Casuarina Tree. 1926. A novel. 

Ashenden, or The British Agent. 1928. Three stories. 

Cakes and Ale, or The Skeleton in the Cupboard. 1930. A 
novel. 

First Person Singular. 1931. Short stories. 

Altogether. 1931. Short stories. 

The Narrow Corner. 1932. A novel. 

Ah King. 1933. Short stories. 

Cosmopolitans. 1936. Short stories. 

Theatre. 1937. A novel. 

Christmas HoUday. 1939. A novel.